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WERNER'S 

Readings  and  Recitations 
No.  37 


platform  IRecitations 


COMPILED   AND   ARRANGED    BY 


ELISE    WEST 


p. 


NEW  YORK 

EDGAR    S.    WERNER    &    CO. 


Copyright,   k;o6,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/platformrecitati37west 


CONTENTS 


\ 


A 


o 
en 


PAGE 

Adam  Never  was  a  Boy. — T.  C.  Harbaugh 21 

After  the  Accident. — George  Hibbard , 51 

Aim  High. — Ernest  Neal  Lyon 50 

Angel's  Wickedness. — Marie  Corelli 112 

Announcing  the  Engagement. — John  Haberton 102 

Blacksmith. — G.  Lemoine 41 

Boy  Engineer. — Geoige  Lansing  Taylor 22 

Boy's  Thanksgiving. — Lydia  Maria  Child 143 

Caprice  at  Home 89 

Captain  Macklin's  Escape. — Richard  Harding  Davis 34 

Christmas  Present  and  What  Came  of  It. — Rose  Terry  Cooke.  ...  180 

Cratchits'  Christmas  Dinner. — Charles  Dickens 105 

Criss-cross -  .  , 87 

Cushions  but  No  Seats 71 

Dog  Sale. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks ^ 

Fallen  Star. — Albert  Chevalier 96 

Forlorn  Hope 49 

Garden  Plot. — Julia  Truitt  Bishop 164 

Glory. — John  Luther  Long. 43 

Going  on  an  Errand 67 

Goliath. — Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 83 

Grant — Dying. — T.  C,.  Harbaugh 72 

Great  College-circus  Fight. — Jesse  Lynch  Williams 118 

Handbook  of  Hymen. — O.  Henry 186 

How  a  Woman  Buys  Meat.- — Mary  Tucker  Magill 100 

3 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Hymn  before  Action. — Rudyard  Kipling 69 

v       Left  Behind. — Arthur  Ruhl 7 

^  Lid  of  the  Grave. — Emerson  Hough 97 

Limerick  Tigers 16 

•«4  Louis  D'Or 144 

Miss  Amelia's  Colored  Lochinvar. — Charles  T.  Grilley 56 

Miss  Angel. — Etta  W.  Pierce 126 

I  Mourning  Veil. — J.  L.  Harbour 38 

Nathan  Hale. — Sara  King  Wiley in 

Old  Apple  Tree. — H.  Coyle 148 

Old  Flag. — Frank  L.  Stanton 102 

One,  Two,  Three. — H.  C.  Bunner 107 

Plain  Miss  Pretty. — Ethel  Sigsbee  Small 76 

Poe's  "Raven"'  in  an  Elevator. — Charles  Battell  Loomis 137 

/     Proper  Reason. — Anna  M.  Pratt 15 

Public  Proposal 70 

Save  My  Son! — Victorien  Sardou 168 

Sergius  to  the  Lion. — Gen.  Lew  Wallace 63 

She  Couldn't  Help  It 68 

She  Felt  of  Her  Belt 62 

She  was  Mad  with  Cause 24 

Shopping  vs.  Buying 46 

Story  of  a  Kicker. — Holman  F.  Day 125 

Stranded  Ship. — L.  Clarke  Davis 149 

Strange  Parent. — James  Noel  Johnson 132 

Swallowing  Camels 42 

Tale  of  Two  Chairs 88 

Through  Fire  and  Water. — Joseph  C.  Lincoln 173 

To  Be  or  Not  To  Be  (Not  Shakespeare.) 55 

Transfiguration  of  Miss  Philura. — Florence  Morse  Kingsley 25 

Two  Home-comings. — Annie  Hamilton  Donnell 133 

Weeds  of  the  Army. — Capt.  Jack  Crawford 82 

What  a  Pity 61 

What  Jack  Said. — J.  L.  Harbour 109 

What  the  Mosquito  Sang 60 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 


What  They  Call  It 117 

When  Father  Rode  the  Goat 156 

When  the  Cows  Come  Home. — Agnes  E.  Mitchell 47 

Whistling  Boy. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks 14 

White  Azaleas. — Helen  Ellsworth  Wright „ .  57 

Widder  Johnsing. — Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 90 

Winning  Him  Back.— Anita  Vivanti  Schartres 157 

Woman's  Description  of  a  Play. — Zenas  Dane 74 


AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 83 

Bishop,  Julia  Truitt 164 

Brooks,  Fred  Emerson 14,  33 

Bunner,  H.  C 107 

Chevalier,  Albert 96 

Child,  Lydia  Maria 143 

Cooke,  Rose  Terry 180 

Corelli,  Marie 112 

Coyle,  H 148 

Crawford,  Capt.  Jack 82 

Dane,  Zenas 74 

Davis,  L.  Clarke 149 

Davis,  Richard  Harding 34 

Day,  Holman  F 125 

Dickens,  Charles 105 

Donnell,  Annie  Hamilton.  ...   133 

Grilley,  Charles  T 56 

Haberton,  John 102 

Harbaugh,  T.  C 21,  72 

Harbour,  J.  L 38,  109 

Henry,  O : 186 

Hibbard,  George 51 

Hough,  Emerson 97 


PAGE 

Johnson,  James  Noel 132 

Kingsley,  Florence  Morse. ...  25 

Kipling,  Rudyard 69 

Lemoine,  G 41 

Lincoln,  Joseph  C 173 

Long,  John  Luther 43 

Loomis,  Charles  Battell 137 

Lyon,  Ernest  Neal 50 

Magill,  Mary  Tucker 100 

Mitchell,  Agnes  E 47 

Pierce,  Etta  W 126 

Pratt,  Anna  M 15 

Ruhl,  Arthur 7 

Sardou,  Victorien 168 

Schartres,  Anita  Vivanti 157 

Small,  Ethel  Sigsbee 76 

Stanton,  Frank  L 102 

Stuart,  Ruth  McEnerv 90 

Taylor,  George  Lansing 22 

Wallace,  Gen.  Lew 63 

Wiley,  Sara  King m 

Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 118 

Wright,  Helen  Ellsworth.  ...  57 


Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 

No.  37. 


Copyright,  1906   by  Edgar  S.  Werner. 


LEFT   BEHIND. 


ARTHUR   RUHL. 


THE  Vandalia  Miler  sat  up  in  bed,  staring  at  the  patch  of  moon- 
light on  the  floor  where  the  Other  Man  lay  sleeping.  For  the 
Other  Man  was  going  away  to  college  and  the  Vandalia  Miler  couldn't 
go.  They  had  grown  up  in  Vandalia  together,  gone  through  the 
grammar-school  and  into  the  high-school,  and  then,  when  most  of  the 
town  boys  were  dropping  out  to  go  to  work,  they  decided  they  were 
going  down  into  the  distant  and  glittering  East. 

They  pounded  out  the  only  decent  eleven  the  school  had  ever  had, 
and  at  last,  in  their  senior  year,  they  got  up  a  track  team  and  taught 
the  school  a  brand-new  cheer.  The  merchants  put  up  the  money  to 
send  the  team  down  to  Pardeeville,  and  the  night  before  they  left 
there  was  a  mass-meeting  and  a  dance  and  speeches.  The  Vandalia 
Miler  and  the  Other  Man  had  gone  home  together  on  air — and  there 
was  a  light  in  the  library  window  of  the  home  of  the  Vandalia  Miler, 
and  his  father  was  in  there  locked  up  with  his  lawyer.  It  wouldn't 
be  announced  for  a  day  or  two  yet,  but  everything  had  gone  to  smash, 
and  it  meant  that  the  Miler  must  stay  behind  and  go  to  work  in  the 
hardware  store. 

He  didn't  sleep  much  that  night,  and  he  had  gone  down  to  the  train 
the  next  day  as  late  as  he  could  and  slipped  on  when  nobody  would 

7 


8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

see  him.  And  here  he  was — sent  down  to  run  for  his  school  and  his 
town,  and  it  all  seemed  like  part  of  a  horrid  dream.  He  got  sorrier 
and  sorrier  for  himself,  and  dropped  asleep  just  as  the  birds  were 
beginning  to  chirp  in  the  trees  outside.  Then  somebody  shook  him, 
and  he  saw  the  Other  Man  standing  over  him,  fresh  as  paint. 

He  ran  very  well  in  spite  of  everything,  but  he  was  beaten  for 
third  place  about  seven  feet  short  of  the  tape.  The  Other  Man  won 
a  brilliant  victory  in  the  hundred-yard  dash. 

The  Miler  went  back  to  the  boarding-house  and  lay  down  on  the 
bed.  He  was  still  there  when  the  Other  Man  came  up  to  dress  for 
the  dance  that  was  to  be  given  for  the  visiting  teams  that  night  in  the 
college  gym. 

"Better  hurry  and  get  ready,"  said  the  Other  Man. 

"Don't  think  I'll  go,"  said  the  Miler.  The  Other  Man  turned 
round  and  stared. 

"See  you  there!"  he  chirped  presently.  And  blew  out  and  down 
the  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time.  The  Miler  thought  some  more.  After 
awhile  he  got  up,  jammed  his  running  clothes  into  his  suit-case  and 
started  for  the  station.  Everybody  in  Pardeeville  was  going  to  the 
dance.     The  station  was  deserted  and  silent  as  the  tomb. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  train  thundered  in.  He  was  in 
his  seat,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  when  the  Other  Man 
bounced  into  the  seat  beside  him.  The  Other  Man  had  to  tell  about  it. 
whether  any  one  listened  or  not.  There  was  a  waltz  that  he  wasn't 
ever  going  to  forget.     And  he  began  to  whistle  the  tune. 

The  train  was  a  milk-train.  It  was  stiflingly  hot,  and  the  Other 
Man  kept  on  humming  and  keeping  time  snapping  his  fingers,  but, 
for  all  that,  the  Vandalia  Miler  finally  dropped  asleep.  He  dreamed 
that  he  was  down  East,  after  all,  and  winning  the  mile.  Then  the 
Other  Man  shook  him  by  the  arm  and  told  him  they  were  back  in 
Vandalia.  He  was  just  blinking  his  eyes  open  and  everything  inside 
him  seemed  to  be  caving  in,  when  the  Other  Man,  still  up  in  the  air, 
began  to  bray  out  his  everlasting  waltz.  The  Vandalia  Miler  whirled 
round  and  yelled: 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  man,  shut  up  1  "  The  Other  Man  looked 
at  him  and  laughed. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  9 

"I  don't  see  what  license  you've  got  to  be  so  all-fired  grouchy," 
he  said.     "If  you'd  won — " 

"Well?" 

"It  looked  to  me — " 

"Are  you  calling  me  a  quitter?  Say  it,  will  you?  How  did  it 
look  to  you?"  And  then,  before  any  one  guessed  what  was  coming, 
he  shot  out  with  his  fist  and  the  Other  Man  went  down  in  a  heap. 
The  others  rushed  in  to  pull  them  apart,  but  the  Other  Man  just  jumped 
up  with  a  grim  little  laugh  and  walked  ahead  with  the  rest.  And 
that  was  the  end  of  Damon  and  Pythias. 

One  afternoon  two  years  later  the  Vandalia  Miler  left  the  hardware 
store  and  started  home  for  supper.  He  swung  up  State  Street  whistling. 
There  was  a  bulletin  in  the  Blade  window: 


TRIUMPH  OF  VANDALIA   BOY. 

Underneath  was  a  dispatch  with  a  New  York  date-line,  telling 
how  the  Other  Man  had  won  the  intercollegiate  mile  at  Mott  Haven 
that  afternoon.  The  Other  Man  had  not  come  back  for  his  vacations, 
and  he  was  getting  to  be  a  we-used-to-know-him-when-he-was-young 
sort  of  a  man.  The  Vandalia  Miler  hurried  home.  There,  without 
knowing  why,  he  unearthed  his  old  running  clothes,  and  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting  that  evening  he  started  jogging  round  the  old  dirt 
track  at  the  fair-grounds,  training  again  for  the  mile. 

They  didn't  go  in  very  heavily  for  sport  in  those  days,  and  every- 
body soon  knew  what  he  was  doing.  The  high-school  boys  came 
over  of  late  afternoons  and  watched  him  run.  Finally,  they  asked 
him  to  help  them  get  up  a  team  to  lick  Sugar  River.  Sugar  River  was 
a  town  about  twenty  miles  north  of  Vandalia.  The  Vandalia  Miler 
helped  them.  He  didn't  know,  of  course,  that  it  was  about  the  most 
important  thing  he'd  ever  done.  But  he  did  it  as  well  as  he  could. 
Sugar  River  annihilated  them.  It  didn't  especially  increase  Vandalia's 
love  for  Sugar  River. 

The  Vandalia  Miler  kept  up  his  training,  and  soon  he  began  to 


10  WERNER'S  READINGS 

run  for  the  fun  of  running.  By  the  time  summer  was  over  he  wag 
brown  as  an  Indian  and  hard  as  nails. 

In  August  came  the  County  Fair.  It  was  the  biggest  fair  in  the 
State.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  the  Blade  published  a  long 
following  program  for  the  day.  There  was  to  be  a  special  excursion 
from  Sugar  River,  a  free-for-all  trot  and  a  two-fifteen  pace,  a  fat  ladies' 
potato-race,  and — "an  open  mile  foot-race  for  the  championship  of 
the  world."     The  Other  Man  had  that  day  reached  Vandalia. 

The  Vandalia  Miler  called  up  the  superintendent's  office  at  the 
fair -grounds  and  told  them  to  enter  him  for  the  mile. 

There  was,  in  the  first  place,  a  piping  hot  August  afternoon.  Then, 
inside  a  high  board  fence,  was  the  fair-ground.  There  were  farmers 
in  their  store-clothes  and  farmers'  girls  in  white  dresses  with  pink 
and  baby-blue  ribbons,  and  in  between  children  with  sticky  popcorn 
and  red  balloons  and  squawkers.  There  was  a  third-of-a-mile  circle 
through  the  thick  of  it.  The  engine  bell  in  the  judge's  stand  tolled 
out  the  warning  signal  and  the  old  marshal  on  his  white  circus  horse 
rode  down  the  track  sidewise,  bellowing  out  the  "mile  foot-race  fer 
the  champeenship  of  the  world!" 

As  he  caught  the  sharp  command,  the  Vandalia  Miler  jumped 
out  of  his  blanket  in  the  Tight-wire  Man's  tent  and  pushed  through  the 
crowd  to  the  mark.  He  was  very  pale.  There  they  were,  the  farmers 
and  the  townspeople,  the  men  and  the  girls  that  he  and  the  Other  Man 
had  grown  up  with  and  gone  to  school  with.  And  he  felt  that  if  he 
could  beat  him — so  slim  and  smiling  and  sure — beat  him  in  Vandalia, 
there  and  then,  with  Vandalia  and  the  county  and  the  old  crowd  looking 
on —    The  engine-bell  clanged  again  peremptorily. 

"Coming!"  Somebody  was  shouting  uproariously  over  the  heads 
of  the  crowd.  A  big  tan  buckboard  drove  in  between  the  surreys  and 
lumber-wagons,  and  out  hopped  the  Other  Man.  He  stood  there 
laughing  and  shaking  hands  with  his  friends — in  his  'varsity  running 
clothes,  the  crimson  ribbon  across  his  chest.  The  Vandalia  Miler 
^ripped  his  fingers  tight.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
crowd  just  under  the  stand,  and  a  big,  tow-headed  chap  began  to 
pull  off  his  overalls  and  shirt.      'Hey    there!"  he  called  up  to  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  11 

starters;  "I  want  to  get  in  this!"  The  crowd  began  to  laugh  good- 
naturedly,  but  the  Vandalia  Miler  didn't  laugh.  He  was  trying  to 
remember  where  he  had  seen  this  farmer's  face.  He  turned  to  find 
the  Other  Man  in  front  of  him,  smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
He  took  it,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did. 

"So  we're  going  to  have  it  out,  right  here  and  now,"  laughed  the 
Other  Man,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Miler. 

All  at  once  some  one  cried — "Now,  ready/"  The  crowd  closed 
into  a  compact  mass  and  out  came  a  yell.  Sugar  River — Sugar  River — 
Sugar  Riverf"     The  Vandalia  Miler  turned  to  the  Other  Man. 

"You  want  to  look  out  for  him:  he's  a  ringer,  and  he's  running 
for  Sugar  River!"  The  starter  swung  his  hat  downward  and,  with  the 
single  cry  of  "  Go!"  sent  the  three  runners  away. 

The  Other  Man  cut  across  from  the  outside  like  a  flash  and  took 
the  pole.  The  Vandalia  Miler  closed  in  behind,  tight  on  his  heels, 
eyes  hooked  to  his  back.  The  tow-headed  man  trailed  the  two,  big- 
boned  and  heavy,  but  striding  long  and  strong  as  a  horse.  Into  the 
crowd  they  went  like  three  machines,  stride  and  stride  alike,  the  Other 
Man  leading  the  way  like  a  race-horse.  Out  into  the  open  and  the 
cooler  air  of  the  back-stretch  they  swung.  They  were  going  like 
a  three-horse  tandem,  the  Vandalia  Miler  so  close  up  that  the  dirt 
from  the  Other  Man's  spikes  splashed  his  shins.  The  pull  of  the 
second  quarter  was  beginning  to  drag  hard  on  his  legs  and  at  the  time 
he  saw  plainly  that  the  Other  Man  was,  if  anything,  increasing  the 
pace.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  a  big  mullen  leaf — one  of 
his  old  mile-stones — slip  past  their  feet,  the  beginning  of  the  third 
quarter.  But  the  shade  of  a  let-down  in  the  pace  which  he  expected 
there  and  which  prepares  for  the  last  quarter  never  came.  As  they 
struck  the  cooler  air  the  noise  about  the  judges'  stand — Sugar  River 
and  Vandalia  all  mixed  together — carne  reaching  across  the  field 
bigger  than  ever,  and  every  time  it  puffed  out  louder  the  Other  Man's 
back  jumped  ahead.  The  Vandalia  Miler  stuck  close — not  pressing, 
not  letting  himself  lose  an  inch.  He  was  holding  every  ounce  of  steam, 
running  every  stride  with  his  head.  Round  the  lower  turn  they  pounded 
every  dozen  strides  or  so  letting  slip  another  link,  and  then,  just  as 


12  WERNER'S  READINGS 

they  were  rounding  into  the  straightaway,  there  suddenly  puffed  up 
from  the  judges'  stand  a  great  roar  of  "Sugar  River!"  At  the  same 
instant  he  heard  a  hoarse  breath  just  behind  his  neck,  an  arm  bumped 
his  elbow,  and  the  tow-headed  man  pushed  by  on  the  outside  and 
went  up  after  the  leader.  The  crowd  down  the  track  was  going  wild. 
The  Vandalia  Miler  didn't  shift  his  eyes  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
Other  Man's  back-  He  was  surprised  at  himself  to  see  how  cool  he 
was.  There  was  more  than  a  quarter  yet  to  go.  Past  the  stand  and 
into  the  crowd  again — the  Sugar  River  man  was  lifting  into  the  sprint! 
And  a  quarter  yet  to  go!  He  saw  the  Other  Man's  back  jump  forward 
as  he  met  the  challenge,  saw  them  fighting,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
knew  the  moment  had  come,  that  here  and  now  the  race  was  to  be  lost 
or  won.  For  a  dozen  strides  he  fought,  like  a  man  under  water  trying 
to  get  to  the  surface,  when  suddenly,  from  the  edge  of  the  track  ahead, 
came  a  quick,  triumphant  cheer.  The  Sugar  River  man  had  squeezed 
past  and  was  on  the  poie.  drawing  away  from  the  Other  Man.  But 
it  was  not  the  Sugar  River  yell  that  was  echoing  across  the  track.  It 
was  the  old  drum-beat  cheer — his  cheer — the  one  he  and  the  Other 
Man  had  taught  the  school  before  the  team  went  to  Pardeeville.  And 
his  name  was  at  the  end.  Down  came  a  pair  of  arms  a  rod  or  two  in 
front  of  him  and  out  it  smashed  again — that  wonderful  yell  with  the 
sudden  shift  of  the  beat  in  the  fifth  line.  He  fought  on  in  a  dizzy 
sort  of  trance,  not  knowing  what  was  happening,  but  feeling  suddenly 
light  and  strong.  He  felt  himself  gaining — felt  that  somehow  the 
backs  of  the  other  two  men  were  drawing  nearer.  Some  one  ran  along 
beside  him  waving  a  hat.  "You've  got  him!  Keep  it  up!"  the  man 
cried.  All  at  once  it  came  to  him  that  he  had  got  him— got  the  Other 
Man — got  the  ringer — that  Vandalia  was  going  to  beat  Sugar  River 
and  the  cheer  shot  out  again.  Some  one — it  was  the  boys  he'd  trained 
who  had  done  it — had  strung  relays  all  round  the  track.  It  became  a 
regular  bombardment.  The  crowd  listened — wavered — and  broke 
loose.  They  came  swarming  down  from  the  seats  on  the  side  hiil  and 
over  the  rail.  They  followed  along  behind  in  a  drove,  yelling  like 
Indians.  "Beat  him!  Beat  him!"  and  steadily  all  the  time  from 
behind  and  in  front  came  that  drum-beat  cheer,  ripping  and  pounding 
out  above  the  rest.     It  seemed  as  though  that  the  whole  fair -ground 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  13 

Lad  jumped  together  in  a  twinkling  and  was  calling  on  him  to  come. 
It  all  hit  him  in  a  flash.  He  had  stayed  behind,  but  he  was  somebody, 
after  all,  and  he  stood  for  somebody  and  they  stood  for  him  and  ex- 
pected things  of  him.  He  forgot  the  Other  Man,  forgot  himself.  He 
was  Vandalia  now,  and  Vandalia  must  smash  Sugar  River.  It  was 
more  than  getting  even;  it  was  fighting  for  his  friends,  for  his  town, 
for  his  country. 

Rounding  into  the  stretch,  he  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  turned 
everything  loose.  With  every  stride  he  seemed  to  pull  the  Sugar  River 
man's  back  nearer,  hand  over  hand.  His  elbow  bumped  an  arm  and 
he  heard  the  Other  Man  gasping  out,  " Beat  him!"  Nothing  could 
have  stopped  him  then.  There  were  fifty  yards  left.  He  shut  his  eyes 
again;  his  elbow  bumped  an  arm,  then  the  engine  bell  was  clanging 
overhead,  and  the  tape  hit  his  chest.  The  crowd  closed  in,  there  was 
a  great  uproar  all  round  him,  and  he  turned  just  in  time  to  see  the 
Sugar  River  man  go  down  and  out  about  six  feet  short  of  the  line,  and 
to  catch  the  Other  Man  in  his  arms  as  he  dove  forward  and  fainted 
clean  away. 

He  picked  him  up  like  a  child  and  carried  him  into  the  Tight-wire 
Man's  tent.  Outside  the  crowd  cheered  and  howled.  The  Other 
Man  opened  his  eyes  and  blinked. 

"Bill — -"  he  said — "I  guess  we've  been  fools  long  enough."  And 
then  the  crowd  pushed  in. 

"  Go  out  to  them,  Bill,"  the  Other  Man  said;   "I'm  all  right." 

They  grabbed  him  up,  protesting,  lifted  him  on  their  shoulders 
and  carried  him  out  of  the  tent. 

That,  in  a  way,  is  about  what  they've  been  doing  to  him  ever  since. 
At  least  that  is  what  Starbuck  said  as  he  told  us  the  story.  Starbuck, 
you  see,  was  the  Other  Man. 

"They've  just  nominated  him  for  governor  out  in  our  State," 
said  he,  "and  they're  telling  the  story  of  that  race  all  the  way  from 
South  River  Junction  to  the  North  State  line.  Bill's  our  Favorite 
Son  now,  and  he's  only  begun." 

"Begins  to  look,"  said  Starbuck  cheerfully,  "as  though  I  was 
the  man  who  was  left  behind." 


14  WERNER'S  READINGS 

THE    WHISTLING  BOY. 


FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS. 


TT  J"HAT  music  like  the  whistle  of  a  well-contented  boy, 
V  V       That  rhythmic  exhalation  of  an  ever-present  joy  ? 
Though  the  fragmentary  cadence  of  a  plain,  untutored  art, 
'Tis  the  melody  of  childhood,  'tis  a  psalm  from  out  the  heart. 
You  will  never  find  a  criminal  behind  an  honest  smile ; 
And  the  boy  ne'er  grows  a  villain  who  keeps  whistling  all  the  while, 
Though  he  whistle  out  of  tune. 

What  cares  he  for  fickle  fortune, — what  the  fashion  may  bestow  ? 
In  his  little  barefoot  kingdom  royalty  in  rags  may  go. 
With  an  apple  in  his  pocket  and  another  in  his  mouth, 
Cares  not  how  the  wind  is  blowing,  whether  north  or  whether  south; 
For  he  has  no  crops  a-growing,  has  no  ships  upon  the  sea ; 
And  he  keeps  right  on  a- whistling,  whate'er  the  tune  may  be, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune. 

'Tis  the  early  smile  of  Summer  creeping  o'er  the  face  of  June, 
Even  though  this  crude  musician  many  times  is  off  the  tune, 
Till  it  bears  the  same  resemblance  to  the  melody  that's  meant, 
That  his  garments  do  to  trousers  little  matter  how  they're  rent. 
When  he's  very  patriotic  then  his  tune  is  sure  to  be — 
Although  a  bit  rebellious- — "My  Country,  'Tis  of  Thee!" 
Which  he  whistles  out  of  tune: 

("  America.") 

Such  a  vision  of  good  nature  in  his  cheery,  smiling  face; 
Better  clothes  would  check  his  freedom,  rob  him  of  his  rustic  grace; 
So  he  feels  a  trifle  awkward  in  his  brand-new  Sunday  clothes, 
While  repeating  to  his  teacher  all  the  Scripture  that  he  knows. 
Out  of  Sunday-school  he  rushes,  takes  his  shoes  off  on  the  sly; 
Says:  " The  angels  all  go  barefoot  in  the  sweeter  by  and  by!" 
Which  he  whistles  out  of  tune : 

("Sweet  By  and  By.") 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  15 

Sometimes  whistling  for  his  playmate,  sometimes  whistling  for  his  dog, 
On  the  quiet,  in  the  schoolhouse,  to  perplex  the  pedagogue ; 
Sometimes  whistling  up  his  courage ;  often  whistling  just  because. 
In  the  South  he  whistles  "Dixie"  o'er  and  o'er,  without  a  pause, 
Till  he's  out  of  breath  completely,  when  it  seems  to  be,  perchance, 
But  a  knickerbocker  whistle,  since  it  comes  in  little  pants, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune: 

("Dixie.") 

Should  he  hail  from  old  New  England  you  may  safely  bet  your  life 
He  can  whittle  out  a  whistle  with  his  broken-bladed  knife. 
He  will  play  his  cornstalk  fiddle  and  his  dog  will  never  fail 
To  show  appreciation,  beating  tempo  with  his  tail; 
Then  he  whistles  "Yankee  Doodle"  like  the  tunes  you  often  hear 
On  the  old  farm-house  piano  when  the  sister  plays  by  ear, — 
For  he  whistles  out  of  tune : 

("Yankee  Doodle.") 

There  is  many  a  weeping  mother  longing,  morning,  night,  and  noon, 
For  her  boy  to  come  back  whistling  just  the  fragment  of  a  tune; 
But  he's  yonder  entertaining  all  the  angels  unaware 
With  a  melody  so  human  they  are  bound  to  keep  him  there; 
For  of  all  that  heavenly  music  nothing  sounds  to  them  so  sweet 
As  that  cheery,  boyish  whistle  and  the  patter  of  his  feet — 
For  he  whistles  all  in  tune : 

("Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee."  ) 


A   PROPER    REASON. 


ANNA  M.  PRATT. 

GREAT-GRANDMA  said  (and  she's  always  right), 
"  A  proper  child  must  be  polite." 
And  teacher  said  (for  I  wrote  it  down), 
"  Katharine  is  a  proper  noun." 
That's  another  grammar — so,  you  see, 
If  I'm  not  as  polite  as  I  can  be, 
Katharine's  not  the  name  for  me.  . 


16  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE   LIMERICK   TIGERS. 


THE  Limerick  Tigers  were  born  on  a  certain  St.  Patrick's  Da\ 
in  a  cyclone  of  patriotic  fervor.  It  was  the  race  spirit  that 
had  made  McGinnis  a  city  father,  and  the  same  spirit  made  him 
captain  of  the  Tigers. 

He  addressed  himself  to  the  organization  of  the  company  with 
a  responsive  patriotism  and  a  quick  recognition  of  the  political  value 
of  the  combination.  His  new  "Upton's  Tactics"  soon  presented  a 
thumb-worn  appearance.  The  Tigers  gloried  in  the  fact  that,  while 
the  oldest  and  most  popular  of  the  city  companies  boasted  of  but  sixty- 
three  members,  eighty-five  answered  to  roll-call  in  the  new  organization. 

The  making  of  the  uniforms  fell  to  a  local  Hibernian  tailor  whose 
time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  Going  on  the  supposition  that  three 
averages  obtained  by  measuring  the  first,  middle,  and  the  last  man  in 
the  ranks  would  produce  satisfactory  results,  the  result  was  that,  when 
Memorial  Day  and  the  uniforms  arrived,  the  day  on  which  the  Tigers 
were  to  make  their  first  appearance  upon  the  streets,  one  or  two  of 
the  men  rolled  up  their  trousers,  and  one  or  two  showed  white  under- 
wear over  their  shoe-tops.  Privates  O'Neal  and  Murphy  were  troubled 
with  coat-sleeves  that,  slipping  over  their  hands,  prevented  that  quick, 
snappy  grasp  of  gunstock  so  much  esteemed  in  the  military'  manual 
of  arms. 

The  quick  eye  of  Captain  McGinnis  discovered  the  prominent 
irregularities  in  the  costumes.  He  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
consulted  his  "Tactics,"  which  he  wore  thrust  in  his  sword-belt.  His 
search  was  not  satisfactory. 

"Privates  Donnelly,  Hagan,  O'Toole,  Sullivan,  McGee,  and  Mul- 
ligan, to  the  front  an'  center,  march!" 

"It  is  evident,  me  friends,"  said  the  captain,  after  a  critical  survey, 
"that  our  comrade  Simpson,  who  made  the  ilegant  uniforms  for  us, 
struck  bad  cloth  that  shrunk  on  some  of  yez  an'  stretched  on  the  rest; 
or  it's  maybe  ye  have  stretched  an'  shrunk  yeselves.  Attintion, 
squad!"  The  captain  drew  his  sword.  "Swap  pants!  Break  ranks 
march!" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  17 

During  the  next  three  minutes  one  could  hear: 

" Don't  crowd  me,  Dennis!  don't  crowd  me!" 

"Tim  Noolan,  your  elbow  is  in  me  fifth  rib!" 

"Mike,  hold  me  gun  till  I  roll  up  me  sleeves  ag'in!  I'll  be  cuttin' 
enough  off  av  these  arms  by  night  to  make  me  boy's  bicycle  pants!" 

"Micky  Fagin!  Gosh,  man,  don't  drop  yer  gun  on  me  foot  ag'in! 
D'ye  take  me  for  a  gun-rack?" 

"Captain,  if  ye'll  bring  me  terbacco  from  the  hip-pocket  av  the 
pants  I  swapped  with  O'Neal — " 

"Silence!"  roared  McGinnis.  "Ye'd  drive  an  old  maids'  tay- 
party  crazy  wid  envy.  Corporal  Noolan,  come  from  under  that  hat! 
Is  it  the  blindman's  buff  ye're  thryin'  to  play.  Remimber,  men,  that 
to-day  the  eyes  of  the  town'll  be  on  yez.  Don't  forgit  the  firin',  me 
boys.  Pull  the  trigger  at  the  word,  an'  not  before,  d'ye  mind  ?  Come, 
let's  thry  it  wanst  more,  for  if  there's  any  difference  in  your  mistakes, 
sure,  it's  your  raggedest  p'int.     Attintion,  company!     Ready!     Aim — " 

"Don't  say  the  word,  captain!"  said  Noolan,  earnestly.  "I've  a 
ball-carthridge  in  me  gun  I  was  savin'  in  case  me  box  won't  open 
quick  at  the  time.     Ef  ye  say  'Fire,'  git  from  before  me!" 

McGinnis  was  red  in  the  face.  "What  other  blackgyard  has  a 
ball  in  his  gun?"   he  asked  furiously.     "Throw  'em  out  to  wanst!" 

Several  ball-cartridges  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"An'  where  did  yez  git  thim?" 

"Sure,  'twas  Noolan's  notion,  captain,  that  the  ball-carthridgi 
makes  the  rale  noise;  an'  we  can't  be  lettin'  the  Tigers  be  downed 
to-day—" 

"An'  did  yez  suppose  ye  could  be  turnin'  loose  lead  in  a  crowd 
widout  funerals,  ye  spalpeens?" 

"Sure,  captain,"  said  Noolan,  "the  crowd  'd  be  safe  behindst  us." 

"Safe!  Put  'em  away,  I  tell  ye!  Safe!  Who'd  be  safe  wid 
this  company  shootin'  ball-carthridges  ?  The  blessed  angels  would 
be  gittin'  behindst  the  trees  in  self-definse.  Private  Murphy,  av  ye 
could  let  down  your  proud  galluses,  your  pants  'd  make  friends  wid 
your  ilegant  gaiters!  Attintion,  company!  At  the  command  'Attin- 
tion,' men,  brighten  up  an'  look  ahead  av  ye;  don't  watch  me — I'm 
riot  goin'    to   l'ave  ye.     Attintion1.     Carry   arms!     Sure,   that  would 


18  WERNER'S  READINGS 

have  made  glad  the  heart  of  St.  Patrick  himself!  Corporal  Noolan, 
turn  your  gun  round;  ye'll  find  it  aisier  to  hold.  Attintion!  Right 
by  twos, — by  twos,  d'ye  mind  now, — twos,  not  fours!  Column, 
lift!  Sure,  that  was  right.  March!  Column,  lift  again,  an'  take 
the  door  next  time  in  passin'.  Steady;  don't  crowd.  Ye'll  git  out 
soon  enough — an'  be  gladder  to  git  back,  I'm  thinkin'."  And  the  sun 
shone  for  the  first  time  upon  the  green  and  gold  of  the  Limerick  Tigers. 

In  columns  of  fours  Captain  McGinnis  brought  his  company  into 
line  with  the  battalion.  "  Dressed,"  the  Tigers  really  presented  an 
imposing  front,  and  the  heart  of  the  captain  swelled  with  pride  as  he 
cast  his  eye  down  the  line. 

A  young  candidate  for  the  legislature,  standing  on  a  platform,  in 
a  patriotic  speech,  presented  a  magnificent  banner  from  women  friends 
of  the  new  company.  The  Tigers  greeted  it  with  rousing  cheers;  and 
amid  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  the  clapping  of  hands,  and  the  roll,  of 
the  drum,  Sergeant  Sweeny  stepped  forward  and  took  the  sacred  thing 
into  his  keeping.  A  startled  expression  came  upon  his  face  as  he  felt 
himself  in  unassisted  possession  of  the  gift.  The  new  treasure  was 
as  large  as  the  side  of  a  cottage  room,  the  staff  of  hard  wood  surmounted 
by  a  solid  brass  eagle,  and  there  were  two  silken  cords  with  gilt  tassels 
that  weighed  probably  five  pounds  each.  The  harp  of  Ireland,  in 
bullion  upon  the  silk,  was  six  feet  high  and  added  fifteen  pounds  to 
the  gross  weight.  In  addition  to  these  impedimenta  was  the  bullion 
fringe,  eight  inches  wide.     And  Sergeant  Sweeny  was  a  small  man. 

But,  though  small  in  stature,  the  sergeant  was  not  easily  dismayed, 
by  large  odds.  Shouldering  his  charge  as  though  it  were  a  mere 
fishing-pole,  he  marched  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  battalion's  major, 
who  sat  his  horse,  his  staff  about  him. 

"Major,"  he  said,  with  an  original  salute,  "an'  will  ye  plaise  as- 
sign me  a  place  in  the  ridgymint?" 

The  major  bit  his  lip  and  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
with   calmness : 

"  Your  place,  sergeant,  is  in  the  center  of  your  own  company." 

"Me  own  company!"  exclaimed  the  color-bearer,  resting  his  staff 
upon  the  ground.     "Sure,  they  told  me  I  rode  wid  the  major!" 

"No.     Fall  in!" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  19 

Sergeant  Sweeny  shouldered  his  burden,  made  his  way  to  the 
designated  position,  fitted  the  staff  in  the  socket  upon  his  belt,  and 
awaited  results.  Those  behind  the  gallant  fellow  could  see  that  his 
responsibility  was  a  great  one,  for  his  broad  belt  sank  into  his  back  so 
deep  that  his  coat-tails  stood  out  at  right  angles. 

Then  came  the  fatal  order: 

"Battalion,  by  platoons,  left  wheel,  march!"  Back  from  the 
front,  on  the  voices  of  captains  and  lieutenants,  rolled  the  martial 
words.  Captain  McGinnis  gave  as  he  heard  it:  "By  platoons, 
heigh!  heigh!  heigh!  heigh!  h —  h —  h — "  It  mattered  but  little  with 
the  Tigers.  They  watched  eagerly  the  company  in  advance  of  them, 
and  gave  one  another  commands  and  advice  of  their  own.  After 
a  scramble,  that  seemed  to  involve  not  alone  the  reputation  of  the 
company  but  the  lives  of  several  members,  two  rather  decent-looking 
platoons  emerged  from  the  melee  with  Sergeant  Sweeny  between  them, 
bravely  balancing  the  flag  and  keeping  up  as  best  he  could  a  martial 
front  and  step. 

"Steady,  boys,  steady!"  shouted  McGinnis,  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder.  Corporal  Noolan,  come  from  under  that  hat!  Aisy  on  the 
line;  don't  be  runnin'  an'  haltin'  that  way;  remember  the  eyes  av 
the  city  is  upon  ye!  Sergeant  Sweeny,  kape  the  shtep, — ye're  sidlin' 
like  a  crab, — an'  quit  starin'  at  the  flag  like  ye'd  niver  seen  wan  before! 
Steady,  boys!  Silence  in  the  ranks!  Steady!  We're  comin'  now 
to  the  corner,  an'  it's  there  the  whole  town'll  be  waitin'  for  yez.  When 
ye  turn  that  corner,  kape  the  touch  nately,  an'  don't  come  a-gallopin' 
round  like  a  lot  av  scared  sheep.  Swing  round,  swing  round  ilegant, 
like  a  farm-gate.     Now  for  ye!     Column,  right  wheel!" 

Part  of  the  first  platoon  went  one  way  and  part  another.  "Come 
back!"  he  yelled  furiously  to  the  wanderers.  "Ye  know  what  I 
mane!  Who  did  yez  see  goin'  off  there?"  he  asked  sarcastically,  as 
they  came  running  in.  "Was  it  the  blessed  band,  or  the  ridgyment, 
or  the  major?" 

"Ye  said,  'Column,  right,'  captain!" 

"An'  if  I  did,  haven't  ye  got  sinse  enough  to  know  it  was  me  own 
right  I  referred  to,  an'  me  back  was  turned!  Second  platoon!  teach 
them  the  thrick,  me  lads!     Now!     Come  round  like  a  gate!" 


20  WERNER'S   READINGS 

They  came,  but  not  like  a  gate.  The  captain's  comments  at  this 
point  are  necessarily  suppressed.  The  pivot-man  of  the  second  platoon 
turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  started  up  the  street  without  waiting 
for  the  gate  to  swing  around.  The  men,  however,  came  on  a  wild  run, 
the  long  sleeves  of  Murphy  causing  him  to  drop  his  gun,  which  he 
promptly  fell  over.  Corporal  Noolan,  disappearing  under  his  hat, 
ran  that  unfortunate  affair  against  a  bayonet,  and  saw  it  vanish  ahead 
of  him  just  out  of  reach,  as  the  owner  of  the  bayonet  fled  into  line. 

The  gallant  Sweeny,  in  turning  the  corner,  met  a  small  gale  of  wind. 
The  banner  immediately  straightened  out  and  sailed  him  off  across  the 
street  toward  a  lee  shore  of  assembled  hacks  and  drays.  The  voice 
of  McGinnis  rose  above  the  din  and  outcry  of  the  cheering  spectators: 

"Sergeant  Sweeny,  kape  the  shtep!" 

The  sergeant's  red  face  was  turned  back  for  an  instant  before  he 
struck  the  breakers,  and  he  delivered  his  defiance: 

"To  blazes  wid  yer  shtep!  I'm  here  for  appearance,  an'  I've  a 
shtep  av  me  own!"  # 

"Company,  halt!"  shouted  the  captain.  "Sergeant  Egan,  take 
four  men  an'  arrist  the  blackgyard!     He's  stealin'  the  flag!" 

Sergeant  Egan  and  his  four  went  on  a  run  after  the  unfortunate 
color -bearer,  and  brought  him  back  in  triumph;  whereupon  a  riot 
was  narrowly  averted.  A  compromise  was  effected  by  furling  the 
banner.  When  quiet  was  at  length  restored,  it  was  found  that  the 
battalion  had  disappeared  down  another  street  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  it  had  lost  a  whole  company. 

This  catastrophe  became  apparent  to  the  major  when  the  command 
reached  the  cemetery  and  a  rest  was  ordered.  The  adjutant  was 
ordered  to  gallop  back  and  ascertain  the  cause.  During  his  absence 
three  wild,  ragged  volleys  were  heard.  He  reported  on  returning  that 
the  Tigers  had  compromised  by  firing  a  salute  over  the  Confederate 
monument.  When  the  first  volley  was  discharged,  certain  old  Con- 
federate veterans  who  had  gathered  to  encourage  the  new  recruits 
looked  hurriedly  into  one  another's  faces  and  promptly  disappeared 
in  neighboring  doorways  and  behind  friendly  shade-trees.  They 
had  recongized  the  "rale  noise." 

One  of  the  most  popular  organizations  in  the  land  to-day  is  known 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  21 

as  the  Limerick  Tigers'  Club.  It  meets  only  annually.  A  ball  is 
given  on  the  evening  of  St.  Patrick's  Day.  Brave  men  in  green  and 
gold  wait  gallantly  on  fair  women,  and  the  merry  tunes  of  old  Ireland 
keep  the  ancient  glories  fresh.  Upon  the  wall  outspread  is  a  mag- 
nificent banner  bearing  a  golden  harp,  and  it  is  a  fixture. 

When  the  rout  is  at  its  best,  and  flying  feet  beat  time  to  inspiring 
strains  of  national  music,  sometimes  a  mellow  voice  is  heard  above  the 
sounds  of  revelry,  exclaiming:  "Sergeant  Sweeny,  kape  the  shtep!" 
And  from  somewhere  always  comes  the  answer:  "To  blazes  wid  yer 
shtep!     I'm  here  for  appearance,  an'  I've  a  shtep  av  me  own!" 


ADAM   NEVER   WAS   A   BOY. 


T.  C.  HARBAUGH. 


OF  all  the  men  the  world  has  seen  since  Time  his  rounds  began, 
There's  one  I  pity  every  day — earth's  first  and  foremost  man. 
And  then  I  think  what  fun  he  missed  by  failing  to  enjoy 
The  wild  delights  of  youthtime,  for — he  never  was  a  boy. 

He  never  stubbed  his  naked  toe  against  a  root  or  stone; 
He  never  with  a  pin  hook  fished  along  the  brook  alone; 
He  never  sought  the  bumblebee  among  the  daisies  coy, 
Nor  felt  its  business  end,  because  he  never  was  a  boy. 

He  never  hooky  played,  nor  tied  the  ever-ready  pail 

Down  in  the  alley  all  alone  to  trusting  Fido's  tail. 

And  when  he  home  from  swimming  came,  his  happiness  to  cloy, 

No  slipper  interfered,  because  he  never  was  a  boy. 

He  never  cut  a  kite-string,  no !  nor  hid  an  Easter  egg ; 
He  never  ruined  his  pantaloons  a-playing  mumble-peg ;     . 
He  never  from  the  attic  stole  a  coon  hunt  to  enjoy, 
To  find  the  "old  man"  watching,  for  he  never  was  a  boy. 

I  pity  him.     Why  should  I  not  ?     I  even  drop  a  tear ; 
He  did  not  know  how  much  he  missed ;  he  never  will,  I  fear. 
And  when  the  scenes  of  "other  days"  my  growing  mind  employ, 
I  think  of  him — earth's  only  man  who  never  was  a  boy. 


22  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE   BOY  ENGINEER. 


GEORGE   LANSING   TAYLOR. 


THE  "Boy  Engineer"  was  the  jest  of  the  road; 
Scarcely  a  man  of  us  knew  him  by  name: 
Thought  Sup'rintendent  partiality  showed 

In  his  promotion, — though  we  knew  he  was  game, 
But  in  "tight  places"  old  engineers  knew 

What  that  curly-haired,  blue-eyed  boy  could  do! 


Sunset  with  glory  was  flooding  the  west; 

Tools  for  the  night  in  the  roundhouse  were  packed ; 
Passengers  chatted ;  train-hands  took  a  rest ; 

Boy  Engineer  had  his  way-train  side-tracked ; — 
Waiting  the  evening's  express'  thundering  flight; — 

Then  he  would  leave, — the  last  train  for  the  night. 

Sat  by  his  ticker,  the  telegraph  man, 
Telling  a  joke, — but  his  ear  was  alert — 

Needing  no  eyes  every  message  to  scan; — 
Suddenly  ticks  came  with  a  rattling  spurt. 

Suddenly  telegraph  man  turned  pale, 

Rushed  out  of  doors  as  though  blown  by  a  gale! 

"Ho!   Captain  Fuller's  big  engine's  run  wild! 

Coming  like  lightning.     His  boy's  in  the  cab. 
Launched  by  the  oldest.     He's  only  a  child. 

Go  through  this  roundhouse  and  train  like  a  stab. 
Boys  and  big  engine  be  mangled  and  wrecked ! 

Ruin  and  death  if  her  race  isn't  checked !"     / 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  23 

Leaped  to  his  feet  then  the  Boy  Engineer, 

Rushed  to  his  engine.     "Uncouple  my  train. 
Open  the  switch  there."     His  voice  rang  out  clear, — 

"  Open,  uncouple,  there's  no  time  to  explain." 
He  sprang  to  his  engine — high  steam  ready  on — 

And  jerked  her  full  throttle.     She  jumped  and  was  gone. 


Then  the  station  went  wild.     Women  screamed  and  men  raved. 

"That  Boy  Engineer  has  gone  crazy,"  they  cried. 
"  What  chance  for  e'en  one  of  the  three  to  be  saved, 

When  two  rushing  engines  like  lightning  collide?" 
But  the  young  engineer  only  thought  of  the  boys, 

And  tasted  e'en  then  a  deliverer's  joys. 

Down  the  rails  in  a  whirlwind  that  fiend  engine  flew, 
While  mile-posts  skipped  past  him  like  ghosts  in  a  dance 

His  hand  grasped  the  lever,  like  steel  firm  and  true, 
His  eye  swept  the  track  with  an  eagledike  glance. 

Round  a  curve  far  beyond  him  the  wild  engine  springs, 
And  now  they  are  meeting  like  dragons  on  wings. 

One  throw  of  the  valves  and  his  engine-frames  thrill! 

She  trembles,  groans,  halts,  then  backs  as  in  fright, 
And  flees  from  the  monster  pursuing  her  still, 

Like  a  bird  from  a  hawk,  yet  with  well-controlled  flight, 
Till,  soft  as  two  snowflakes  that  join  in  the  air, 

The  engines  touch  noses,  run  tandem,  one  pair! 

Then  deadening  his  engine,  now  pushed  by  the  brunt 
Of  the  giant  behind  her,  the  youth,  without  fear, 

Runs  out  on  the  foot-board  and,  down  o'er  the  front, 
Crawls  over  the  pilots  and  mounts  with  a  cheer 

The  fury  that  rocks  like  a  skiff  on  the  stream, 
And  leaps  to  her  lever  and  cuts  off  her  steam! 


24  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Delivered!  the  two  frightened  boys  on  the  floor 
Lie  weeping  with  terror  and  heart-breaking  shame; 

But  quickly  he  calms  them — their  anguish  is  o'er— 
As  "Billy"  and  "Jacky"  he  calls  them  by  name; 

And  soon  at  the  platform  his  two  engines  stand, 
And  two  laughing  boys  he  leads  down  by  the  hand ! 

Ah,  then  that  old  station  with  jubilee  rang! 

Men  shouted  and  cheered!  Women  wept,  danced,  and  sang! 
And  they  hugged  those  two  boys  as  though  both  were  theirs ; 

And  the  wires  flashed  to  Fuller,  who  sat  like  a  stone, 
"Boys  and  engine  all  safe,  waiting  orders  up  here! 

Engine  caught  on  the  fly  by  the  'Boy  Engineer'!" 

Now,  old  Captain  Fuller,  the  old  engineer, 

Was  one  who  had  mentioned  the  boy  with  a  sneer ; 

But  when  "the  boy's"  train  brought  his  boys  and  machine, 
His  face  like  old  Moses'  from  Sinai  was  seen! 

And  a  hug  like  a  bear's  on  "that  boy"  he  bestowed! 
And  the  Boy  Engineer, — well,  he  just  owns  the  road! 


SHE   WAS   MAD   WITH   CAUSE. 


"TT7"HY,  my  dear,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you?  You 
V  V  look  as  if  you  could  bite  a  tenpenny  nail  in  two,"  said 
Mr.  Day,  when  he  came  home  the  other  evening  and  found  his  wife, 
with  her  hat  and  gloves  on,  standing  in  the  vestibule  of  the  house. 

"Don't  ask  me  a  word  about  it,  Ralph  Day,  and  don't  you  dare 
laugh  or  I'll — I'll  leave  you!  I  never  was  so  mad  in  all  the  mortal 
days  of  my  life.     I — I — oh,  I  could  swear!" 

"Well,  please  don't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Day.  "What  are  you 
standing  here  for?" 

"What  am  I  standing  here  for?  Why  have  I  been  standing  here 
for  three  wretched  hours?  Oh,  I  could  fly!  Haven't  you  any  eyes? 
Can't  you  see  why  I  am  standing  here?" 

"No,  I  can't." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  25 

"Can't  you  see  that  the  back  part  of  my  dress  is  caught  in  these 
miserable  inside  doors  and  that  I  can't— oh,  you  go  to  laughing  and 
I'll  use  this  parasol  on  you.  I  started  out  to  make  some  calls  nearly 
three  hours  ago,  and  while  I  was  standing  here  a  draught  of  wind 
banged  the  door  shut  and  caught  the  back  part  of  my  dress  in  it,  and 
I  just  couldn't  get  away.  It's  [Thursday,  and  the  girl's  out,  and  there's 
no  one  in  the  house,  and  the1  outside  doors  were  shut  so  I  couldn't 
make  any  one  hear  me  from  the  street.  As  usual,  I'd  forgotten  my 
latch-key,  and  here  I've  stood  and  stood  and  stood,  until  I  thought 
I'd  die,  and — Ralph  Day,  if  you  don't  stop  laughing  and  giggling 
like  an  idiot  I'll — I'll — you  hurry  and  open  this  door  and  let  me  get 
away  from  here  or  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  on  earth.  Oh,  I'm 
so  mad!" 


TRANSFIGURATION   OF   MISS  PHILURA. 


FLORENCE   MORSE   KINGSLEY. 


Arranged  by  Anna  D.  Cooper. 


MISS  PHILURA  RICE  tied  her  shabby  bonnet  before  the  mirror 
in  the  third  story  back  bedroom  of  Mrs.  J.  Mortimer  Van 
Deuser's   Boston  mansion. 

A  somewhat  pinched  and  wistful  face  was  reflected  with  large 
blue  eyes  arched  with  a  mere  pretense  at  eyebrows.  Miss  Philura 
in  her  twenties  had  ventured  to  eke  out  this  scanty  provision  of  nature 
with  burned  match  applied  in  the  privacy  of  her  chamber.  The 
twenties,  with  their  dreams  and  follies,  were  past. 

As  for  the  insufficient  eyebrows,  they  symbolized,  as  it  were,  a 
meagre  and  restricted  life.  More  years  ago  than  she  cared  to  count 
she  had  grappled  with  a  vague  discontent,  had  thrust  it  resolutely 
out  of  sight,  and  on  the  top  of  it  planted  a  big  stone  marked  "Resigna- 
tion." 

Miss  Philura,  looking  smaller  and  more  insignificant  than  usual, 
was  seated  in  the  carriage  opposite  Mrs.  J.  Mortimer  Van  Deuser — 
a  large,  heavily  upholstered  lady — who  remarked: 


26  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"During  your  short  stay  in  Boston,  you  will,  of  course,  wish  to 
avail  yourself  of  those  means  of  culture  and  advancement  so  sadly 
lacking  in  your  own  environment.  This  morning,  my  dear  Philura, 
you  will  have  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  an  address  by  Mrs.  B.  Isa- 
belle  Smart,  one  of  our  most  advanced  thinkers." 

"Where  will  the  lady  speak — I  mean,  will  it  be  in  the  church?" 
ventured  Miss  Philura. 

"The  lecture  will  take  place  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Woman's 
Ontological  Club." 

When  Mrs.  B.  Isabelle  Smart  began  to  speak  she  became  almost 
directly  aware  of  a  small,  wistful  face  under  an  unbecoming  bonnet. 
Her  theme  was  "Thought  Forces  and  the  Infinite." 

Before  three  minutes  had  passed  Miss  Philura  had  forgotten  that 
such  things  as  unbecoming  bonnets  and  superfluous  birthdays  existed. 
In  ten  minutes  more  she  was  leaning  forward  in  breathless  attention. 

"  The  unseen  Good  hems  us  about  on  every  side,"  the  speaker  was 
saying.  "  Out  of  it  every  need,  every  want,  every  yearning  of  humanity 
can  be  supplied.  It  only  remains  for  you  to  bring  the  invisible  into 
visibility — to  take  of  the  everlasting  substance  what  you  will!" 

When,  at  the  close  of  the  lecture,  Mrs.  B.  Isabelle  Smart  became 
the  center  of  a  polite  yet  insistent  crush  of  satins,  velvets,  and  broad- 
cloths, she  was  aware  of  a  timid  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  turned  to 
look  into  the  small,  eager  face  of  Miss  Philura. 

"You — you  meant  religious  gifts,  did  you  not?"  faltered  the  faint, 
discouraged  voice;  "faith,  hope,  and— and — the — the  being  resigned 
to  God's  will." 

"I  meant  everything  that  you  want." 

"But — but  there  is  so  much!  I — I  never  had  anything  that  I 
realty  wanted — things,  you  know,  one  could  hardly  mention  in  one's 
prayers." 

"Have  them  now.  God  is  all.  All  is  God.  You  are  God's. 
God  is  yours!" 

Then  the  billowing  surges  of  silk  and  velvet  swept  the  small,  in- 
quiring face  into  the  background  with  the  accustomed  ease  and  relent- 
iessness  of  billowing  surges. 

Miss  Philura  sat  very  erect  on  the  way  home;    red  spots  glowed 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   37.  27 

upon  her  faded  cheeks.  "I  think,"  she  said  tremulously,  "that  it 
was  just — wonderful;  I — I  am  so  very  happy  to  have  heard  it.  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times.  Cousin  Maria,  for  taking  me." 

Mrs.  Van  Deuser  raised  her  gold-rimmed  glasses  and  settled  them 
under  arching  brows.  "Of  course,"  she  said  coldly,  "one  should 
make  due  and  proper  allowance  for  facts — as  they  exist.  A  lowly 
but  pious  life,  passed  in  humble  recognition  of  God's  chastening 
providence,  is  doubtless  good  and  .proper  for  many  worthy 
persons." 

Miss  Philura's  blue  eyes  flashed  rebelliously  for  the  first  time  in 
uncounted  years.  She  made  no  answer.  Indeed,  her  next  remark 
was  so  entirely  irrelevant  that  her  august  kinswoman  stared.  "I 
am  going  to  purchase  some — some  necessaries  to-morrow,  Cousin 
Maria;  I  should  like  your  maid  Fifine  to  go  with  me." 

******** 

Miss  Philura  acknowledged  to  herself,  with  a  truthfulness  which 
she  felt  almost  brazen,  that  her  uppermost  yearnings  were  of  a  wholly 
mundane  character. 

During  a  busy  and  joyous  evening  she  endeavored  to  formulate 
these  thronging  desires;  by  bedtime  she  had  even  ventured  to  indite 
the  most  urgent  of  these  wants. 

"I  wish  to  be  beautiful  and  admired.  I  want  two  new  dresses, 
a  hat  with  plumes,  and  a  silk  petticoat  that  rustles.  I  want  some 
kid  gloves  and  a  feather  boa.  I  wish — •"  then,  with  cheeks  that 
burned,  Miss  Philura  wrote  the  fateful  words.  "I  wish  to  have  a  lover 
and  to  be  married." 

"There  I  have  done  it!"  she  said,  her  little  fingers  trembling 
with  agitation.  "He  must  already  exist  in  the  Encircling  Good.  He 
is  mine.  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  at  this  very  moment!"  She 
arose  from  her  evening  orisons  with  a  glowing  face.  "I  have  asked," 
she  said  aloud,  "and  I  believe  I  shall  have." 

Mademoiselle  Fifine  passed  a  very  enjoyable  morning  with  Miss 
Philura.  The  two  visited  a  certain  millinery  shop  conducted  by  an 
agreeable  compatriot  of  Fifine's.  This  individual  produced  a  modest 
hat  of  black,  garnished  with  plumes,  which  set  lightly  on  the  loosened 


28  WERNER'S  READINGS 

bands  of  golden-brown  hair.  Fifine  and  the  milliner  exchanged 
delighted  shrugs  In  truth,  the  small,  erect  figure,  in  its  perfectly 
fitting  gown,  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  Miss  Philura  of  yesterday. 
As  for  the  face  beneath  the  nodding  plumes,  it  was  actually  radiant — ■ 
transfigured — with  joy  and  hope. 

Mrs.  J.  Mortimer  Van  Deuser  regarded  the  apparition  which 
greeted  her  at  luncheon  with  open  disapproval.  This  new  Miss 
Philura,  with  the  prettily  flushed  cheeks,  the  bright  eyes,  the  fluff  of 
waving  hair,  and — -yes,  actually  a  knot  of  fragrant  violets  at  her  breast, 
gave  her  an  unpleasant  shock  of  surprise.  "I  am  sure  I  hope  you 
can  afford  all  this." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Philura  tranquilly,  but  with  heightened 
color;  "I  can  afford  whatever  I  like  now." 

Mrs.  Van  Deuser  stared.  "What — er — I  do  not  understand. 
Where  did  you  obtain  the  money  for  all  this!" 

Miss  Philura  raised  her  eyebrows  ever  so  little.  "The  money? 
Why,  out  of  the  bank,  of  course." 

Upon  the  fact  that  she  had  expended  in  a  single  morning  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  modest  supply  for  her  six  months'  living  Miss  Philura 
bestowed  but  a  single  thought.  "In  the  All-encircling  Good,"  she 
said  to  herself  serenely,  "there  is  plenty  of  money  for  me;  why  should 
I  not  spend  this?" 

The  village  was  treated  to  a  singular  surprise,  on  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing following,  when  Miss  Philura  walked  down  the  aisle.  Whispered 
comment  and  surmise  flew  from  pew  to  pew. 

"Philury's  had  money  left  her,  I  shouldn't  wonder";  "Her  cousin 
Van   Deuser s  been  fixin'  her  up";    "She's  a-goin'  to  be  married!" 

Miss  Electa  Pratt  attached  herself  to  Miss  Rice  at  the  close  of 
service.  "I'm  just  dying  to  hear  all  about  it!  Have  you  had  a  fortune 
left  you?  Everybody  says  you  have;  and  that  you  are  going  to  get 
married  soon.     I'm  sure  you'll  tell  me  everything!" 

Miss  Philura  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "I  haven't  exactly  had 
money  left  me,  but  I  have  all  that  I  need." 

"And  are  you  going  to  be  married,  dear?" 

"Yes." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  29 

"Well,  I  never — Philura  Rice.     Do  tell  me  when;   and  who  is  it?" 
"I  cannot  tell  you  that — now.     He  is  in" — she  was  about  to  add 
the  "Encircling  Good,"  but  she  reflected  that  Miss  Pratt  might  fail 
to  comprehend  her.     "I  will  introduce  you  to  him — later,"  she  con- 
cluded with  dignity. 

The  "Encircling  Good"  proved  itself  wholly  adequate  to  the 
demands  made  upon  it.  Though  there  was  little  money  in  the  worn 
purse,  there  were  many  invitations  to  dine,  and  not  even  the  new 
Methodist  minister's  wife  could  boast  such  lavish  donations  of  new- 
laid  eggs,  frosted  cakes,  delicate  biscuit,  and  choice  fruit  as  were  brought 
to  Miss  Philura. 

"Everything  that  I  want  is  mine!"  cried  the  little  lady,  bedewing 
the  pages  of  Holy  Writ  with  happy  tears.  The  thought  of  the  lover 
and  husband,  who  yet  lingered  in  the  invisible,  brought  a  becoming 
blush  to  her  cheek.  "I  shall  see  him  soon,"  she  reflected  tranquilly. 
"He  is  mine — mine!" 

Miss  Electa  Pratt  was  seated  in  the  Deuser's  awe-inspiring 
reception-room. 

"What  you  tell  me  about  Philura  fills  me  with  surprise  and  alarm," 
remarked  her  hostess.  ' '  I  fear  Philura's  visit  to  Boston  failed  to 
benefit  her  as  I  intended." 

"  But  she  said  that  she  had  money,  and  that  she  was  going  to  get 
married,"  persisted  Miss  Pratt.  "You  don't  suppose  that  the  poor 
thing  is  going  crazy?" 

Mrs.  Van  Deuser  concentrated  her  penetrating  orbs  upon  a  tri- 
angular knob  that  garnished  the  handle  of  her  visitor's  umbrella. 
When  she  did  speak,  after  some  moments,  it  was  to  dismiss  that  worthy 
person  with  an  ease  that  permitted  nothing  further,  either  in  information 
or  conjecture. 

Her  subsequent  cogitations  took  shape  in  a  letter  to  Rev.  Silas 
Pettibone,  which  recalled  Miss  Philura's  visit  to  the  Ontological  Club, 
and  the  indications  of  its  unfortunate  consequences. 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  take  myself  to  task  in  the  matter,"  she  wrote, 
"if  I  had  not  improved  the  opportunity  to  explain  to  my  misguided 


30  WERNER'S  READINGS 

relative  the  nature  and  scope  of  controlling  Providence,  as  displayed 
in  the  humbler  classes  of  society.  As  an  under-shepherd  of  the  lowly 
flock  to  which  Miss  Rice  belongs,  my  dear  Mr.  Pettibone,  I  lay  her 
spiritual  state  before  you,  and  beg  that  you  will  set  aright  her  erroneous 
views  of  the  overruling  guidance  of  the  Supreme  Being." 

If  the  Rev.  Silas  had  been  blessed  with  a  wife,  to  whose  nimbler 
wits  he  might  have  submitted  the  case,  it  is  probable  that  he  would 
not  have  sat  so  long  studying  the  contents  of  the  violet-tinted  envelope 
from  Boston.  But,  unfortunately,  the  good  minister  had  laid  his 
helpmate  under  the  churchyard  sod  some  three  years  previous. 

"Let  me  think,"  he  mused;  "Miss  Philura  has  been  very  regular 
in  her  attendance  at  church  and  prayer-meeting  of  late.  No,  I  have 
observed  nothing  wrong.  But  I  cannot  approve  of  these — ah — clubs. 
Ontology,  now,  is  certainly  not  a  fit  subject  for  the  consideration  of 
the  female  mind." 

Having  delivered  himself  thus,  the  reverend  gentleman  made 
ready  for  parochial  visits.  Foremost  on  his  list  was  the  name  of  Miss 
Philura  Rice.  He  resolved  to  be  brief,  though  impressive,  in  his 
pastoral  ministrations. 

The  sunshine,  pleasantly  interrupted  by  snowy  muslin  curtains, 
streamed  into  Miss  Philura's  modest  parlor,  kindling  into  scarlet  flame 
the  geranium  at  the  window  and  flickered  gently  on  the  brown  head  of 
the  little  mistress  of  the  house,  seated  with  her  sewing  in  a  favorite 
rocking-chair.  Miss  Philura  was  unaffectedly  glad  to  see  her  pastor 
and  told  him  at  once  that  last  Sunday's  sermon  was  inspiring. 

The  reverend  gentleman  seated  himself  opposite  and  regarded  her 
attentively.  The  second-best  new  dress  was  undeniably  becoming; 
the  blue  eyes  under  the  childish  brows  beamed  upon  him  cordially. 

"I  am  pleased  to  learn — ah — that  you  can  approve  the  discourse 
of  Sabbath  morning.  I  have  had  occasion  to— that  is — er,  my  atten- 
tion has  been  called  of  late  to  the  fact  that  certain  members  of  the 
church  have — well,  to  put  it  briefly,  some  have  fallen  grievously  away 
from  the  faith." 

The  small,  upturned  face  shone  with  so  serene  a  light  that  the 
under-shepherd  of  the  Innisfield  flock  leaned  forward  and  fixed  his 
earnest  brown  eyes  on  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  the  lady.     In  treatises 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  31 

relating  to  the  affections  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  is  generally 
conceded  to  mark  a  crisis.  It  marked  a  crisis  on  this  occasion;  during 
that  moment  the  Rev.  Silas  Pettibone  forgot  at  once  and  for  all  time 
the  violet-tinted  envelope  in  his  coat-tail  pocket. 

"God  is  so  kind,  so  generous  I  "  said  Miss  Philura  softly.  "How- 
is  it  possible  to  fall  away?  I  do  not  understand.  Is  it  not  because 
they  do  not  know  Him?" 

It  is  altogether  likely  that  the  pastor  of  the  Innisfield  Presbyterian 
Church  found  conditions  in  the  spiritual  state  of  Miss  Philura  which 
necessitated  prolonged  admonition;  at  all  events,  the  sun  was  sinking 
when  he  slowly  and  thoughtfully  made  his  way  toward  the  parsonage. 

"I  believe  I  failed  to  draw  Miss  Philura's  attention  to  the  obvicus 
relation  between  faith  and  works,"  cogitated  the  Reverend  Silas,  as  he 
sat  before  his  lonely  hearth,  placidly  scorching  his  new  slippers,  pre- 
sented by  Miss  Electa  Pratt  "to  my  pastor  with  grateful  affection." 
"I  will — ah — just  look  in  again  for  a  moment  to-morrow  after- 
noon." 

A  few  Sabbaths  later  Miss  Electa  Pratt  found  the  sermon — on  the 
text,  "Little  children,  love  one  another,  for  love  is  of  God" — so  ex- 
tremely convincing  that  she  took  occasion  to  seek  a  private  conversation 
with  her  pastor  in  his  study. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  been  so  wrought  up!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  cried  and  cried  after  I  got  home  from  church  this  morning.  Ma, 
she  sez  to  me,  sez  she,  'What  ails  you  Lecty?'  And  I  sez  to  ma,  sez 
I,  'Ma,  it  was  that  blessed  sermon.  I  don't  know  when  I  ever  heard 
anything  like  it!  That  dear  pastor  of  ours  is  just  ripening  for  a  better 
world!'  It  does  seem  to  me,  dear  Mr.  Pettibone,  that  you  ain't  looking 
as  well  as  usual.  I  said  so  to  Philura  Rice  as  we  was  coming  out  of 
church,  and  I  really  hate  to  tell  you  how  she  answered  me.  'Mr. 
Pettibone  is  perfectly  well!'  she  says,  and  tossed  those  feathers  of 
hers  higher'n  ever.  Philura's  awful  worldly.  I've  been  a-thinking 
for  some  time  that  it  was  my  Christian  duty  (however  painful)  to  tell 
you  what  Mis'  Van  Deuser,  of  Boston,  said  about — " 

The  Rev.  Silas  Pettibone  brought  down  his  fist  upon  his  open 
Bible  with  forensic  force  and  suddenness.  "Miss  Philura  Rice,"  he 
said,  "is  one  of  the  most  spiritual — the  most  lovely  and  consistent 


32  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Christian  characters  it  has  ever  been  my  privilege  to  know.  I  must 
further  tell  you  that  I  hope  to  have  the  great  happiness  of  leading 
Miss  Rice  to  the  matrimonial  altar  in  the  near  future." 

Miss  Electa  Pratt  sank  back  in  her  chair  petrified  with  astonish- 
ment. "Well,  I  must  say!"  she  gasped.  "And  she  was  engaged 
to  you  all  this  time  and  I  never  knew  it!" 

The  Rev.  Pettibone  bent  his  eyes  coldly  upon  his  agitated  parish- 
ioner. "I  am  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  your  very  strange  comment, 
Miss  Pratt,  the  engagement— ah — took  place  only  yesterday." 

"Yesterday!  Well,  I  can  tell  you  that  Philura  Rice  told  me  that 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  more  than  three  months  ago!" 

"More  than  three  months  ago!"  she  repeated  with  incisive 
emphasis.  "  Now,  maybe  you'll  listen  to  me  while  I  tell  you  what 
I  know  about  Philura  Rice!" 

But  the  lady  had  reckoned  without  her  host.  The  Rev.  Silas 
arose  to  his  feet  with  decision.  "I  certainly  will  not  listen  to  anything 
derogatory  to  Miss  Rice.     She  is  my  promised  wife,  you  will  remember." 

That  evening  after  service  Miss  Philura,  her  modest  cheeks  dyed 
with  painful  blushes,  confessed  to  her  promised  husband  that  she 
had  indeed  announced  her  intentions  of  matrimony  some  three  months 
previous.  " I  wanted  somebody  to — to  love  me,"  she  faltered;  "some- 
body in  particular,  you  know;  and — and  I  asked  God  to  give  me — a  —a 
husband.  After  I  had  asked,  of  course  I  believed  that  I  had.  He — he 
was  already  in  the  Encircling  Good,  you  know,  or  I  should  not  have 
wanted  him!  When  Electa  asked  me  point  blank,  what  could  I  say 
without — without  denying — GOD?" 

The  brave  voice  faltered  more  than  once  during  this  recital;  and 
finally  broke  down  altogether  when  the  Rev.  Silas  Pettibone,  his 
brown  eyes  shining,  exclaimed  in  joyful  yet  solemn  tones,  "and  God 
sent  me!" 

The  "Encircling  Good"  was  perfectly  manifest  at  that  moment 
in  the  shape  of  two  strong  arms.  Miss  Philura  rested  in  them  and  was 
g^d. 

Ques.     Why  do  women  always  turn  to  the  last  chapter  of  a  book? 
Ans.      Because  a  woman  always  jumps  at  conclusions. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  33 


THE    DOG    SALE. 


FRED    EMERSON   BROOKS. 


OLD  Rover  once  said  to  his  frow — - 
" Bow,  wow! 
We've  got  too  much  family  now — 
Bow,  wow! 
So  pick  every  pup 
You  would  sooner  give  up 
And  we'll  sell  them  at  auction  somen ow- 
Bow,  wow! 

There's  Don  with  a  musical  bark- 
Bow,  wow! 
And  Fannie  so  fond  of  a  lark — 
Bow,  wow! 
With  Towser  at  play, 
Who  sleeps  all  the  day 
But  watches  all  night  in  the  dark — 
Bow,  wow! 

The  twins  that  we  can't  tell  apart— 

Bow,  wow! 
And  two  so  unlike  from  the  start — 
Bow,  wow! 
Bulldozer  for  running, 
And  Carlo  for  gunning, 
And  Bob  for  the  little  boy's  cart— - 
Bow,  wow! 

There's  Tiger  so  homely  and  grave—-- 
Bow,  wow! 

But  never  a  dog  was  more  brave- 
Bow,  wow! 


34  WERNER'S  READINGS 

With  Tiny  and  Mix, 
Who  can  do  all  the  tricks, 
And  Spry,  who  can  buffet  the  wave — 
Bow,  wow!" 

Seeing  tears  in  the  eyes  of  his  frow — 

Bow,  wow! 
Said  Rover:   "We'll  not  sell  them  now— 
Bow,  wow! 
Although  we  have  many, 
We  can't  part  with  any; 
We'll  manage  to  keep  them  somehow — 
Bow,  wow!" 


CAPTAIN   MACKLIN'S   ESCAPE. 


RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS. 


[Young  Royal  Macklin,  the  last  of  the  line  of  "fighting  Macklins,"  because 
of  a  piece  of  boyish  folly,  was  dismissed  from  the  West  Point  Military  Academy, 
and  joined  the  forces  of  Laguerre,  who  was  conducting  a  revolution  in  Central 
America.  By  merit,  bravery,  and  good  luck  he  became  Vice-President  of  Honduras 
and  one  of  the  most  famous  captains  in  the  little  army;  but  suddenly  luck  changed, 
his  party  was  defeated  and  driven  out  of  the  capital  and  he  escaped  death  by 
fleeing  in  disguise  to  the  seacoast  where  he  was  delirious  with  fever  for  several 
weeks.  When  he  came  to  himself,  he  found  that  his  only  chance  to  return  to 
America  was  by  boarding  a  Pacific  mail-boat.] 

I  PROCURED  a  fishing-boat  and  a  crew  of  three  men,  dug  up  my 
money -belt  and  my  revolver,  and  the  next  night  pushed  out  from 
the  shore  of  Honduras,  and  was  soon  rising  and  falling  on  the  broad 
swell  of  the  Pacific. 

My  crew  were  simple  fishermen;  and,  as  I  had  no  fear  of  harm 
from  them,  I  instantly  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke,  the  boatman  pointed  to  a  fringe  of  palms  that 
hung  above  the  water,  and  that,  he  told  me,  rose  from  the  Island  of 
Amapala.  Lying  well  toward  us  in  the  harbor  was  a  big  steamer 
with  the  smoke  issuing  from  her  stacks,  and  the  American  flag  hang- 
ing at  the  stern. 

When  I  reached  the  vessel  I  wanted  to  embrace  the  first  man  I 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  35 

saw.  But  he  happened  to  be  the  ship's  purser,  and  he  told  me  coldly 
that  steerage  passengers  were  not  allowed  aft.  My  head  was  bound 
in  a  dirty  bandage.  My  uniform,  which  I  still  wore,  was  in  rags  from 
the  briers.  I  had  an  eight  days'  beard,  and  my  bare  feet  were  in 
native  sandals.  So  my  feelings  were  not  greatly  hurt.  And  I  said 
that  I  wanted  a  first-class  cabin,  the  immediate  use  of  the  bathroom, 
and  the  services  of  the  ship's  barber. 

"A  first-class  passage  costs  forty  dollars  gold — in  advance." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  laughed,  "I'll  take  six." 

As  the  purser  moved  toward  his  cabin,  a  group  of  men  came  down 
the  deck  toward  us. 

One  of  them  was  a  fat,  red-faced  American,  the  others  wore  the 
uniform  of  Alvarez.  When  they  saw  me  they  gave  little  squeals  of 
excitement.  One  of  them  was,  as  I  guessed,  the  Commandante  of 
the  port.  He  spoke  to  the  fat  man  in  English,  then  turned  to  one  of 
his  lieutenants,  and  gave  an  order  in  Spanish. 

I  heard  a  patter  of  bare  feet.  A  dozen  soldiers  ran  past  me,  and 
surrounded  me.  They  belonged  to  the  very  regiment  I  had  driven  out 
of  the  barracks  at  Santa  Barbara. 

I  turned  to  the  purser  and  said,  "Well,  what  are  we  waiting  for?" 
With  a  gesture  of  impatience  the  fat  man  suddenly  came  toward  me. 

"Have  you  got  your  police-permit  to  leave  Amapala?" 

"No." 

"Well,  why  haven't  you?" 

"I  didn't  know  I  had  to  have  one.  Why  do  you  ask?  Are  you 
the  captain  of  this- ship?" 

"I  think  I  am,"  he  suddenly  roared.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
our  agent  sold  you  a  ticket  without  you  showing  a  police-permit?" 

"I  haven't  got  a  ticket.     I  was  just  going  to  buy  one  now." 

The  Commandante  thrust  himself  between  us. 

"Ah,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  he  cried.  "You  see?  He  is  escaping. 
This  is  the  man.  He  answers  all  the  descriptions.  He  was  dressed 
just  so;  green  coat,  red  trousers,  very  torn  and  dirty — head  in  bandage. 
Last  night  he  stabbed  Jose  Mendez  in  the  Liberted  Billiard  Hall.  If 
Jose  he  die,  this  man  he  is  murderer.  He  cannot  go.  He  must 
come  to  land  with  me." 


36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"That  man  is  a  liar,  I  was  not  in  Amapala  last  night.  I  came 
from  San  Lorenzo  this  morning.  The  boat  is  alongside  now.  I'm 
no  murderer.  That  man  knows  I'm  no  murderer.  He  wants  me 
because  I  belonged  to  the  opposition  government.  It's  because  I 
wear  this  uniform  he  wants  me.  He  has  no  more  right  to  touch  me 
here  than  he  would  if  I  were  on  Broadway." 

The  Commandante  seized  the  Captain's  arm. 

"As  Commandante  of  this  port,"  he  screamed,  "I  tell  you  if  you 
do  not  surrender  the  murderer  to  me  your  ship  shall  not  sail.  I  will 
take  back  your  clearance-papers." 

The  Captain  turned  on  me  shaking  his  red  fists  and  tossing  his 
head  like  a  bull. 

"You  see  what  you  get  me  into,  coming  on  board  my  ship  with  our 
a  permit!  That's  what  I  get  at  every  banana-patch  along  this  coast, 
a  lot  of  stowaways  stealing  on  board,  and  the  Commandante  chasing 
'em  all  over  my  ship  and  holding  up  my  papers.  You  go  ashore  1 
You  haven't  got  a  ticket,  and  you  haven't  got  a  permit,  and  you're 
no  passenger  of  mine!  Do  you  hear  me?  Quick,  now,  over  you 
go." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  refuse  to  protect  me  from  these 
half-breeds,  that  you  are  going  to  turn  me  over  to  them — to  be 
shot!  And  you  call  yourself  an  American?  and  this  an  American 
ship!" 

As  I  turned  from  him  I  found  that  the  passengers  had  come  forward 
and  surrounded  us.  To  my  famished  eyes  they  looked  like  angels 
out  of  Paradise. 

"  Are  you  going  to  take  that  man's  word  against  mine  ?  Are  you 
going  to  let  him  murder  me  in  sight  of  that  flag  ?" 

The  Commandante  crowded  forward. 

"That  man  is  my  prisoner.  If  you  try  to  leave  this  harbor  with 
him,  I  will  sink  your  ship  from  the  fort!" 

The  Captain  turned  with  an  oath. 

"Up  anchor!  Get  her  under  way!  There  is  your  answer.  Now, 
you  get  down  that  ladder,  before  we  throw  you  down.  I'm  not  here 
to  protect  any  scalawag  stowaway." 

My  condition  was  desperate. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  37 

"Protect  your  owners  and  yourself,"  I  cried,  "I  don't  want  your 
protection.  I  wasn't  good  enough  to  serve  under  that  flag  once,  and 
I  don't  need  it  now.     I  can  protect  myself!" 

Before  any  one  could  move  I  whipped  out  my  gun  and  held  it  over 
the  Commandante's  heart. 

"Don't  move!"  I  yelled  in  Spanish  at  the  soldiers.  "If  one  of 
you  raises  his  musket  I'll  kill  him." 

I  pressed  the  cocked  revolver  against  the  Commandante's  chest. 

"Now,  then,  take  me  ashore.  You  know  me,  I'm  Captain  Macklin 
— Captain  Macklin,  of  the  Foreign  Legion,  and  you  know  that  six 
of  you  will  die  before  you  get  me.  Come  on,  which  six  is  it  to  be? 
Oh,  you  don't  remember  me,  don't  you?  You  ought  to  remember 
the  Foreign  Leigon!  We  drove  you  out  of  Santa  Barbara  and  I'm 
your  Vice-President!  Take  off  your  hats  to  your  Vice-President! 
To  Captain  Macklin,  Vice-President  of  Honduras!" 

I  sprang  back  against  the  cabin  and  swung  the  gun  in  swift  half- 
circles.  The  men  shrank  from  it  as  though  I  had  lashed  them  with 
a  whip. 

"  Come  on,  which  six  is  it  to  be  ?  Come  on,  you  cowards,  why 
don't  you  take  me!" 

The  only  answer  came  from  a  voice  that  was  suddenly  uplifted 
at  my  side.     The  voice  of  the  ship's  captain. 

"Put  down  that  gun!"  he  shouted. 

But  I  only  swung  it  the  further  until  it  covered  him  also. 

"Are  you  Captain  Macklin?"  he  cried. 

"Yes." 

"Then,  why  didn't  you  say  so!"  and  with  a  bellow  like  a  bull  he 
thiew  himself  upon  the  Commandante.  With  the  strength  of  a  bull 
he  butted  and  shoved  him  across  the  deck. 

"Off  my  ship,  you!  Every  one  of  you:  you're  a  gang  of  murder- 
ing cutthroats.  Over  with  him,  boys.  Clear  the  ship  of  them. 
Throw  them  overboard." 

The  crew  fell  upon  the  astonished  soldiers,  drove  them  to  the  side, 
and  I  was  left  alone,  leaning  limply  against  the  cabin  with  my  revolver 
hanging  from  my  fingers. 

"  Bring   Captain   Macklin's  breakfast  to  my   cabin,"   shouted   the 


38  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Captain.  "  And  Mr.  Owen, "  addressing  the  purser,  "  this  is  Captain 
Macklin.     He's  going  with  us  as  my  guest." 

With  a  wink,  he  slapped  me*  jovially  on  the  shoulder.  "Son! 
I  suspicioned  it  was  you,  the  moment  you  did  it.  Now,  you  come 
along,  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee,  or  you'll  be  ailing." 

He  pushed  away  through  the  crowd  of  passengers.  I  heard  a 
woman  ask. 

"Who  did  you  say?" 

A  man's  voice  answered,  "Why,  Captain  Macklin.  Now,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  Jennie,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  know  who  he  is!" 

And  that  was  my  first  taste  of  fame. 


V 

THE    MOURNING   VEIL. 


J.    L.   HARBOUR. 


A  WIDE,  uncovered  piazza  ran  along  the  front  of  the  Stoner  house, 
and  there  two  little  girls — children  of  a  neighbor  who  had 
no  piazza — were  playing  "keep  house."  They  had  their  dolls,  dishes, 
and  other  playthings  strewn  about,  but  were  beginning  to  lose  interest 
in  housekeeping  and  in  "going  visiting."  Suddenly  the  younger 
of  them  said: 

"I'll  tell  you  what — let's  play  funeral." 

"How?" 

"Well,  we  can  play  that  my  Josephine  Maude  Angelina  dolly 
died,  and  that  we  buried  her." 

" That  will  be  splendid!     Let's  have  her  die  right  off." 

Immediately  after  the  death  of  Josephine  Maude  Angelina  her 
grief -stricken  mother  said : 

"Now,  Katie,  we  must  put  crape  on  the  door-knob  to  let  folks 
know  about  it.  You  run  over  to  the  house  and  get  mamma's  long 
black  veil." 

"It  ought  to  be  white  for  a  dolly,  oughtn't  it?"  asked  Katie. 

"I  guess  you  forget  that  Josephine  Maude  was  a  married  doll 
and   a   widow  at  that,  don't  you?"  asked  Dorothy,  a  little   tartly. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  39 

"You  remember  how  Teddy  Davis's  horrid  dog  chewed  poor  Josephine's 
husband  up." 

Katie  went  away,  and  returned  soon  with  a  long,  black  mourning 
veil.  It  was  quickly  tied  to  Mrs.  Stoner's  front-door  bell-knob;  then 
the  bereft  Dorothy's  grief  broke  out  afresh,  and  she  wailei  and  wept 
so  vigorously  that  Mrs.  Stoner  put  her  head  out  of  an  upper  window 
and  said: 

"You  little  girls  are  making  too  much  noise  down  there.  Mr. 
Stoner's  sick  and  you  disturb  him.  I  think  you'd  better  run  home 
and  play  now.     My  husband  wants  to  go  to  sleep." 

"How  unfeeling!"  said  Dorothy,  snatching  up  the  dead  doll  and 
her  other  playthings. 

They  departed,  quite  forgetting  to  take  the  veil  off  the  door-knob. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Maria  Simmons  came  down  the  street, 
and  suddenly  stopped  in  front  of  the  Stoner  house. 

"My  sakes  alive!  If  there  ain't  crape  on  the  Stoners'  door-knob! 
Poor  Sam  Stoner!  I  knew  he  was  sick,  but  I'd  no  idea  he  was  at 
all  dangerous.     I  must  stop  on  my  way  home  and  find  out  about  it." 

She  would  have  stopped  then  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  eagerness 
to  carry  the  news  to  those  who  might  not  have  heard  of  it.  A  little 
farther  on,  she  met  an  acquaintance. 

"Ain't  heard  'bout  the  trouble  up  at  the  Stoners',  have  you?" 

"What  trouble?" 

"Sam  Stoner  is  dead.  There's  crape  on  the  door-knob.  I  -70,3 
in  there  yesterday,  and  Sam  was  up  and  round  the  house;  but  I  could 
see  that  he  was  a  good  deal  sicker  than  he  or  his  wife  had  any  idea  of, 
"and  I  ain't  much  s'prised." 

"My  goodness  me!   I  must  find  time  to  call  there  before  night!" 

Mrs.  Simmons  stopped  at  the  village  post-office  ostensibly  to  ask 
for  a  letter,  but  really  to  impart  her  information  to  Uncle  Dan  Wales, 
the  talkative  old  postmaster. 

"Heard  'bout  Sam  Stoner?" 

"No.     I  did  hear  he  was  gruntin'  round  a  little,  but — " 

"He  won't  grunt  no  more,"  said  Mrs.  Simmons,  solemnly.  "He's 
dead." 

"How  you  talk!" 


40  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  It's  so.     There's  crape  on  the  door." 

"Must  have  been  dreadful  sudden.  Mis'  Stoner  was  in  here  last 
evening  an'  she  reckoned  he'd  be  out  in  a  day  or  two  well  as  ever." 

"I  know.  But  he  ain't  been  well  for  a  long  time.  I  could  see  it 
if  others  couldn't." 

The  news  was  spreading  now  from  another  source,  and  in  a  way 
that  caused  those  who  heard  it  to  declare  that  it  was  "perfectly 
scand'lous"  for  Mrs.  Stoner  to  "carry  on  so."   — — 

Job  Higley,  the  grocer's  delivery  man,  returned  from  leaving  some 
things  at  the  Stoner  house,  full  of  indignation. 

"That  Mis'  Stoner  ain't  no  more  feelin'  than  a  lamp-post,"  said 
Job,  indignantly.  "There's  crape  on  the  door-knob  for  poor  Sam 
Stoner,  an'  when  I  left  the  groceries  Mis'  Stoner  was  fryin'  doughnuts 
cool  as  a  cowcnmber  an'  singin'  'Way  down  upon  the  S'wanee  River' 
loud  as  she  could  screech,  an'  when  I  said  I  was  sorry  'bout  Sam  she 
just  laughed  an'  said  she  guessed  Sam  was  all  right,  an'  then  if  she 
didn't  go  to  jokin'  me  'bout  Tildy  Hopkins." 

Old  Mrs.  Peevy  came  home  with  an  equally  scandalous  tale. 

"I  went  right  over  to  the  Stoners'  soon  as  I  heard  'bout  poor  Sam," 
she  said,  "an'  if  you'll  believe  me,  there  was  Mis'  Stoner  hangin'  out 
clothes  in  the  back  yard.  I  went  right  round  to  where  she  was  an' 
she  says,  just  as  flippant,  'Mercy!  Mis'  Peevy,  where'd  you  drop 
down  from?' 

■"I  felt  so  s'prised  an'  disgusted  that  I  says,  'Mis'  Stoner,  this 
is  a  mighty  solemn  thing,'  an'  if  she  didn't  just  look  at  me  an'  laugh, 
with  the  crape  for  poor  Sam  danglin'  from  the  front  door -bell  knob; 
an'  she  says:  T  don't  see  nothin'  very  solemn  'bout  washing  an' 
hangin'  out  some  o'  Sam's  old  shirts  an'  underwear  that  he'll  never 
wear  ag'in.  I'm  goin'  to  work  'em  up  into  carpet-rags  if  they  ain't 
too  fur  gone  fur  even  that.' 

"'Mis'  Stoner,'  I  says,  'the  neighbors  will  talk  dreadfully  if  you 
ain't  more  careful,'  an'  she  got  real  angry  an'  said  if  the  neighbors 
would  attend  to  their  business  she'd  attend  to  hers.  I  turned  an' 
left,  without  even  goin'  into  the  house." 

The  Carbury  Weekly  Star  came  out  two  hours  later  with  this  an- 
nouncement: 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  41 

"We  stop  our  press  to  announce  the  unexpected  demise  of  our 
highly  respected  fellow-citizen,  Mr.  Samuel  Stoner,  this  afternoon. 
A  more  extended  notice  will  appear  next  week." 

"'Unexpected'!  I  should  say  so!"  said  Samuel  Stoner,  as  he  read 
this  announcement  in  the  paper.  '"A  more  extended  notice  next 
week'?  I'll  write  that  notice  myself,  and  I'll  extend  it  far  enough 
to  let  that  editor  know  what  I  think  of  him." 

"But  how  did  this  crape  get  on  the  front  door?"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Stoner.  "I  found  it  there  when  I  went  out  to  get  the  paper.  It  is 
the  strangest  thing,  and  I — there's  the  minister  coming  in  the  gate! 
Do  calm  down,  Sam!  He's  coming  to  make  arrangements  for  the 
funeral,  I  suppose." 

Mr.  Havens,  the  minister,  was  surprised  when  Mr.  Stoner  himself 
opened  the  door  and  said : 

"Come  right  in,  pastor;  come  right  in.  My  wife's  busy,  but  if 
you  want  to  go  ahead  with  the  funeral,  I'll  give  you  the  main  points 
mvself."  _ 


THE   BLACKSMITH. 


G.  LEMOINE. 


CLING  clang,  cling  clang! 
Went  the  blacksmith's  hammer, 
While  his  brazen  voice  outrang 

High  o'er  all  the  clamor. 
In  his  forge  from  break  of  day, 
When  he  pealed  his  roundelay, 
So  fierce  he  seemed,  the  neighhjl^jound 
Quaked  with  terror  at  the  soun»T^^ 
Loudly  ring,  my  anvil  true, 
I'll  have  ne'er  a  bride  but  you: 
In  my  black  abode,  thy  beat 
Than  a  love  song  is  more  sweet: 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


42  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Cling  clang,  cling  clang! 

Softly  rang  the  hammer  : 
Roger's  heart  instead  went  bang, 

With  a  violent  clamor. 
He  the  pretty  Rose  had  seen, 
Flower  half  blown  of  sweet  fifteen, 
Put  on  gloves,  was  wed  full  soon, 
Changed  was  then  the  blacksmith's  tune: 
Soft,  my  anvil,  ring  to-day 
In  the  name  of  love  I  pray, 
Softly,  softly  sound  the  blows, 
Not  to  drown  the  voice  of  Rose. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Cling  clang,  cling  clang! 
Rose  was  very  trying; 

Three  times,  hark!  a  slap  outrang, 
Into  silence  dying. 

Ah,  poor  Rose,  sure  all  is  o'er! 

Came  the  watch  and  burst  the  door. 

Lo,  the  man  of  noise  and  strife 

On  his  knees  before  his  wife ! 

Rose,  in  love's  dear  name  I  pray 
Beat  me,  beat  me  all  the  day, 
For  thy  pretty  hand  will  be 
Soft  as  satin  still  to  me. 
La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


SWALLOWING  CAMELS. 


A  LADY  asked  one  of  the  children  in  her  Sunday-school  class, 
"What  was  the  sin  of  the  Pharisees?" 
"Eating  camels,   ma'am,"   was  the  reply.     The  child  had   read 
that  the  Pharisees  "strained  at  gnats  and  swallowed  camels." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  43 


GLORY. 


JOHN   LUTHER   LONG. 


FIRST  Madame  Pine-Tree  observed  the  increased  devotion  of 
her  daughter-in-law.  Then,  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  concerning 
it,  she  slipped  behind  the  fusuma  one  day,  and  this  is  what  she  heard : 

"Oh,  Shaka!  Hail — hail — hail!  Look  down.  I  have  brought 
a  sacrifice  of  flowers — and  new  rice.  Also,  I  am  quite  clean.  I  am 
shivering  with  cleanness.  Therefore,  grant  that  there  may  be  honor- 
able— war  1" 

Madame  Pine-Tree  pushed  the  fusuma  noisily  aside.  Glory 
put  her  hands  upon  the  floor  and  her  forehead  on  them,  and  saluted 
her  husband's  mother  as  became  her. 

"Why  do  you  pray  for  war?     Speak!" 

"That  Ji-Saburo  may  come.  If  there  is  a  war  he  got  come  an' 
fight.  An'  I  lig  jus'  see  him — if  he  come,  of  course.  Me  ?  I  don 
keer  liddle  bit!" 

"Speak  Japanese  to  me,  madame!" 

"Ah — ah — ah!     Please  aexcuse  me.     I  'most  always  forgitting." 

War  was  declared.  But  Ji-Saburo  had  not  come.  Glory  con- 
tinued her  supplications — now  that  peace  might  not  come  too  soon. 

And,  lo!  early  one  morning  there  was  a  knock  on  the  amado  and 
the  little  maid  announced  not  only  Ji-Saburo,  but  that  he  was  in 
uniform — and  had  a  bandage  about  his  head! 

"Now,  little  maid,  run!  My  yellow  kimono,  gold-woven  obi,  powder 
for  my  face,  vermilion  for  my  lips,  the  new  kanzashi  for  my  hair; 
run/"     She  prostrated  herself  at  the  shrine. 

"Shaka,  thou  art  almighty!" 

As  she  came  down,  glowing  in  her  bravery,  she  was  intercepted 
by  her  mother-in-law. 

"I  have  seen  him.     It  is  not  he.     It  is  a  barbarian!" 

But  it  was  Ji-Saburo.  And  he  embraced  her  in  Western  fashion. 
She  was  visibly  frightened. 

"But  we  were  betrothed  in  infancy." 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Yaes.     I  got  do  what  you  as'  me — I  got.     But — " 

"You  don't  like  it?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  audaciously  kissed  her.  She  only 
trembled  a  little  this  time. 

"That's  better.     At  first—" 

"Ah!  but  I  din'  know.  I  din'  know  how  that  was  sweet.  I 
naever  been — kiss — nor — How  you  call  that  other?" 

"Embraced." 

"Yaes.  /  naever  been  kiss  nor  embrace  by  nobody.  Now  thing 
'bout  that!  How  I  going  know  how  that  is  nize?  How  you  also 
know — aexcep'  you  learn? — Ah — ah — ah!  How  do  you  learn  those? 
You  been  betroth  with — with — another?  Alas  an'  alas!  Those 
purple-eye  Americans!     How  they  are  beautiful!" 

"I  shall  tell  you  about  the  purple-eyed  women,  Glory.  There 
was  one.     I  asked  her  to  marry  me  finally — " 

"  You  as'  the  girl — herself? — not  her  father? — an'  all  her  uncles?" 

"In  America  the  girl  herself  decides." 

"How  that  is  nize!  An' — an'  she  going  marry  you?  You  going 
marry  she?" 

"No." 

"Ah — ah — ah!  Tha'  's  sawry — ver'  sawn-.  I  don'  lig  that. 
Take  'nother  cup  tea — an'  rice-cake?"  But  her  face,  radiant  with 
joy,  distinctly  belied  her  words. 

"She  is  not  sorry — nor  am  I — now — nor  need  you  be.  But  I 
was  hit  hard.  I  went  to  Tokio  and  enlisted.  Was  at  Sei-kwang. 
Got  this  wound  there.  Am  home  on  furlough.  I  tried  to  fancy  it 
all  patriotism.     But  I'm  afraid  you  have  healed  me." 

"  Oh ! — an' — an'  you  go'n'  marry  me — lig  our  both  parents  promise 
each  other — long  ago?" 

"Yes,  you  sprite,  I  shall  marry  you.  She  said  that  I  ought  to 
marry  a  Japanese  girl.     She  is  right.     There  are  none  more  beautiful." 

"Ah!  I  am  happier  than  I  have  aever  been  sinze  I  was  borned! 
All  the  evil  years  are  blotted  out  by  jus'  this  one  liddle  minute'  So— 
I  don'  keer  who  teach  you — jus'  if  >ou  teach  me,  aha,  ha,  ha!  I  don' 
lig  that  you  cut  with  a  sword,  Ani-San.  Oh — oh — oh'  Mebby 
you  git  kill  sometime,  an'  I  jus'  liddle  ole  widows.     \Vhat  you  thing?" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  45 

"  That  I  shall  stay  right  here  and  not  run  the  risk — of  making  you 
a  widow.  I  am  entitled  to  my  discharge.  We  will  be  married  at 
once." 

"No — no — I — I  am  marry  jus'  now.  They  make  me  marry 
account  I  so  poor.  This  hosban' — he  gittin'  tire'  of  me  now.  An' 
me?  Oh,  how  I  gitting  more  tire'  of  him!  An'  of  that  mother  of  him! 
He  go'n'  divorce  me,  I  egspeg,  account  I  don'  lig  those  mother.  Me  ? 
I  will  naever  lig  her!  See!  Tha'  's  how  I  make  him  divorce  me. 
Then — then — ah,  Ji-Saburo — you  shall  marry  me!  Jus'  lig  I  been 
praying  for  aever  sinze  I  been  borned.  Ah — ah — ah!  All  the  gods 
in  the  sky!  What  I  done  with  you  to  put  such  a  loog  in  your  face? 
Speak  it  to  me!     Ji-Saburo,  speak!" 

"  Permit  me  to  go  without  speaking — that  is  best.  I  was  mistaken 
in  thinking  I  am  Japanese.     I  am  nothing.     Born  here;   bred  there." 

"Ah,  Ji-Saburo,  will  you  not  tell  me  why  you  go'n'  be  so  crule 
with  me  ?     See,  I  beg  on  my  both  knees." 

"You  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  do." 

"Me?  I  forgive  you  bifore!  Now — tell  me.  By  all  the  gods, 
tell  me!" 

"To  be  'married'  and  'divorced'  so  easily,  Glory,  is  held  an  evil 
custom  by  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Forgive  me — you  are  innocent. 
I  am  not." 

"Oh,  Shaka!  Jus'  one  minute  ago  I  was  that  happy!  Ah,  Ji- 
Saburo,  all  the  days,  an'  nights,  an'  months,  an'  years  I  have  waited 
an'  prayed.  Alas!  the  gods  have  both  answered  an'  denied  my 
prayers — for  I  asked  only  to  see  you.  I  did  not  dream  that  you  might 
wish  for  marry  me.  If  I  had  jus'  dreamed  those — I  should  have  been 
a  nun  for  you,  Ji-Saburo.  An'  I — when  you  see  me  I  am  jus' — evil. 
Forgive  me,  Ani-San.  I  would  die  rather  than  make  you  thing — ■ 
regret —  Jus' — jus'  I  shall  always  be  sad  in  hereafter.  An'  will  you 
be  a  liddle  kine  to  me — oh,  jus'  a  liddle — account  I  got  be  always  sad  ?  " 

He  took  her  hands  gently,  kissed  them  one  after  the  other,  and 
was  gone. 

"Sayonara!"     she    sobbed,    "foraever    an'    foraever — sayonara!" 

Her  husband  came  in.     She  faced  him  savagely. 

"Oh,  all  the  gods,  how  I  hate  you!     You  have  made  me  evil." 


46  WERNER'S  READINGS 

One  moment  of  amazed  silence.  Then  he  struck  her.  As  she 
lay  at  his  feet  she  heard  him  say  to  the  man-servant : 

"Find  the  nakodo.  Let  him  return  her  to  her  father.  Take  all 
the  presents  she  brought." 

She  was  divorced. 

Her  purification  began  at  the  great  temple  of  Asakusa.  I  cannot 
stop  to  tell  what  it  cost — of  penance  and  travail.  But  at  the  end  the 
bronzes  assured  her  that  she  was  again  without  sin.  They  had  never 
seen  the  evil  she  accused  herself  of.  But  for  the  repose  of  her  soul 
they  humored  her — the  gentle  priests.  Now  she  was  without  sin, 
they  said.  So  she  meant  always  to  remain.  They  burnt  incense 
upon  her,  gave  her  the  blessings  of  all  the  gods,  and  she  went  forth 
to  find  Ji-Saburo. 

But  it  was  long,  and  everywhere  the  wounded  needed  her,  and 
she  became  a  nurse.  Soon  there  was  not  a  field-hospital  where  the 
wan  face  of  the  "Spirit  Nurse"  was  not  known. 

And  one  day  the  great  commander  himself  came  to  see  and  thank 
her.  She  told  him  quite  simply  all  her  little  story.  And  he,  looking 
into  her  worn  face,  told  her,  with  generous  untruth,  that  Ji-Saburo 
had  been  made  a  colonel,  had  gone  home  to  marry  her,  had  not  found 
her  there.  He  would  be  with  her  in  six  days  now.  She  must  rest  a 
great  deal — sleep — and  Ji-Saburo  would  come. 

A  courier  left  for  the  front  within  an  hour. 

In  six  days  Ji-Saburo  was  at  her  side.  She  was  dead.  The  peace 
on  her  wan  face  had  come,  they  told  him,  with  her  last  words,  which 
had  been  his  name. 


SHOPPING  VS.  BUYING. 


BESSIE. — Let's  play  we  are  going  shopping. 
Nellie.- — Let's.     But  then,  where's  our  money  ? 
Bessie. — Oh,  we  don't  need  any  money.     All  we  have  to  do  is  to 
price  things,  and  say  they  are  no  good,  and  make  the  clerks  mad. 
I've  seen  mamma  do  that  lots  of  times. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  47 


WHEN   THE  COWS   COME   HOME. 


AGNES   E.   MITCHELL. 


WITH  klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 
'Way  down  the  dusty  dingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home: 
Now  sweet  and  clear,  and  faint  and  low, 
The  airy  twinklings  come  and  go, 
Like  chimings  from  some  far-off  tower, 
Or  patterings  of  an  April  shower 

That  makes  the  daisies  grow; 
Ko-klarg,  ko-klarg,  ko-klinglelingle, 
'Way  down  the  darkening  dingle, 
The  cows  come  slowly  home ; 
And  old-time  friends,  and  twilight  plays, 
And  starry  nights,  and  sunny  days, 
Come  trooping  up  the  misty  ways 
When  the  cows  come  home. 

With  jingle,  jangle,  jingle, 
Soft  sounds  that  sweetly  mingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home; 
Malvine,  and  Pearl,  and  Florimel, 
De  Kamp,  Redrose,  and  Gretchen  Schell, 
Queen  Bess,  and  Sylph,  and  Spangled  Sue. 
Across  the  fields  I  hear  her  00-00, 
And  clang  her  silver  bell; 
Go-ling,  go-lang,  go-linglelingle, 
With  faint,  far  sounds  that  mingle 
The  cows  come  slowly  home ; 
And  mother  songs  of  long-gone  years, 
And  baby  joys,  and  childish  tears, 
And  youthful  hopes,  and  youthful  fears, 
When  the  cows  come  home. 


48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

With  ringle,  rangle,  ringle, 
By  twos  and  threes  and  single, 
The  cows  are  coming  home; 
Through  the  violet  air  we  see  the  town, 
And  the  summer  sun  a-slipping  down; 
The  maple  in  the  hazel  glade 
Throws  down  the  path  a  longer  shade, 
And  the  hills  are  growing  brown; 
To-ring,  to-ring,  to-ringleringle, 
By  threes  and  fours  and  single, 
The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
The  same  sweet  sound  of  wordless  psalm, 
The  same  sweet  June-day  rest  and  calm, 
The  same  sweet  scent  of  bud  and  balm, 
When  the  cows  come  home. 

With  a  tinkle,  tankle,  tinkle, 
Through  fern  and  periwinkle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home. 
A-loitering  in  the  checkered  stream, 
Where  the  sun-rays  glance  and  gleam, 
Starine,  Peachbloom,  and  Phcebe  Phyllis 
Stand  knee-deep  in  the  creamy  lilies 
In  a  drowsy  dream ; 
To-link,  to-lank,  to  linklelinkle, 
O'er  the  banks  with  buttercups  a-twinkle, 
The  cows  come  slowly  home; 
And  up  through  memory's  deep  ravine 
Come  the  brook's  old  song  and  its  old-time  sheen, 
And  the  crescent  of  the  silver  queen, 
When  the  cows  come  home. 

With  a  klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 
With  a  loo-oo,  and  moo-oo,  and  jingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home; 
And  over  there  on  Morlin  hill 
Hear  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  whippoorwill; 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  49 

The  dewdrops  lie  on  the  tangled  vines, 
And  over  the  poplars  Venus  shines, 

And  over  the  silent  mill ; 
Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  ko-lingielingle; 
With  ting-a-ling  and  jingle 

The  cows  come  slowly  home; 
Let  down  the  bars ;  let  in  the  train 
Of  long-gone  songs,  and  flower  and  rain, 
For  dear  old  times  come  back  again 

When  the  cows  come  home. 


A   FORLORN   HOPE. 


"'I  ^EN  thousand  a  year,  and  so  fair  and  petite! 

±-      Well,  a  cottage  with  Jessie,  and  all  things  en  suite, 
By  Jove!  I'm  hard  up,  and  the  end  of  my  rope 
I  must  shape  in  the  conjugal  noose,"  said  Fred  Hope. 

They  had  many  a  tryst  'neath  a  shady  old  ash, 

Where  he  played  his  fine  eyes,  pulled  his  tawny  mustache — 

Jessie  shook  her  small  head,  all  sunlight  and  curls, 

"Ah,  you've  said  the  same  thing  to  a  hundred  young  girls' 

But  Fred  placed  his  hand  where  his  heart  ought  to  be ; 

Said  he'd  flirted,  but  ne'er  been  in  love  until  she 

Crept  into  his  heart,  and  he  blessed  his  dear  fate — 

"Tf  you're  earnest,"  said  Jessie,  "we're  young,  we  can  wait." 

Alas!  many  are  promised  that  never  are  matched, 
And  chickens  are  counted  that  never  are  hatched ; 
Even  mice  have  outwitted  the  wisdom  of  man, 
And  Fred's  castle  buildings  are  chateaux  en  Espagne. 

On  the  hotel  piazza,  'neath  midnight's  bright  stars, 
Sipping  "Widow  Cliquot,"  smoking  fragrant  cigars, 
Sit  Fred  and  his  crony,  young  Tony  McVay, 
And  the  confab  grows  louder,  more  rapid  and  gay. 


50  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Do  listeners  ever  hear  good  of  themselves  ? 

And  why  should  dear  Jessie,  most  wakeful  of  elves, 

Be  sitting  behind  her  own  green  jalousie, 

And  hear  her  name  spoken  by  Tony  McV.  ? 

'  Now  tell  me  about  her  (here,  fill  your  glass,  Fred) — 
The  girl  with  the  big  eyes  and  jolly  red  head." 
'  Well  she's  not  over  bright."  said  the  hopeful  young  roue, 
And,  tapping  his  head,  '  there's  appartements  a  louer. 

"I've  been  very  spooney,  made  love  to  her  aunty 
(She's  an  orphan,  you  know),  I've  read  Byron  and  Dante. 
She's  ten  thousand  a  year — I  was  getting  the  blues — 
Et  que  voulez  vous,  Tony,  le  roi  il  s'amuse." 

Ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  stage  to  the  West 
Swings  up  to  the  porch,  and  like  bird  to  her  nest 
Sinks  Jessie,  all  smiling — not  sad  and  forlorn, 
Unconscious  that  Fred  Hope  had  ever  been  born. 

Till  he  stammers:   "Why,  Jessie'   there's  something  amiss!" 
"  Yes,  sir,  I'm  a  miss  and  I'll  stay  one  till  this — 
'  Not  over  bright '  head  shall  be  furnished  with  brains 
That  may  prompt  me  to  go  within  doors  when  it  rains. 

"So  good-bye!  we  are  starting.     For  your  kindness  to  aunty 
I  really  do  thank  you.     When  again  you  read  Dante, 
Don't  forget  the  inscription,  it  will  bring  me  to  mind, 
1  All  ye  who  here  enter,  leave  hope  (Fred)  behind ! ' " 


AIM   HIGH. 


ERNEST   NEAL  LYON. 


ATTEMPT  the  highest  I     Nobler  far 
To  scumble  gazing  at  a  star, 
Than,  by  a  glow-worm  lantern  led, 
To  follow  in  another's  tread 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  51 


AFTER   THE   ACCIDENT. 


GEORGE   HIBBARD. 


THE  automobile  stood  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  ditch.  He  was 
on  his  knees,  gazing  frantically  down  at  her.  She  lay  motion- 
less at  the  foot  of  the  tree  whither  he  had  carried  her. 

She  moved  slightly.  Her  eyelids  quivered,  and  she  gazed  straight 
into  his  anxious  face. 

"Which  of  the  other  worlds  did  we  strike?"  she  asked  dreamily. 

"Are  you  all  right?" 

"I  hope  it  was  Jupiter.  Mars  would  have  been  too  humiliatingly 
little." 

"You're  not  hurt?   There's  nothing  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  miss  any  part  of  myself.     But  what  happened ?*'  . 

"I  wasn't  watching  the  road.  Thinking  of  something  else,  as 
you  know.     We  were  going  like  sixty — " 

"  No.  We'll  say  like  twenty -five.  That  must  be  about  the  average 
of  our  ages." 

"Anyway,  we  got  thrown  out  and  came  near  being  killed  in  the 
first  ditch." 

"I've  always  understood  that  a  certain  merit  attaches  to  dying 
in  the  last." 

"  You  are  sure  there's  no  harm  done  ?  ' 

"  If  you  mean  to  the  automobile — " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous.     Are  you  all  right?'' 

"In  answer  to  your-money- or-y our  life  way  of  asking  after  my 
health,  I  may  say  that  I  am." 

"It's  annoying  enough." 

"That  I  am  well?" 

"You  are  annoying  enough,  if -you  like.  I  am  extremely  sorry 
that  you  have  had  this  unpleasant  experience  I  wish  ihat  it  had  been 
at  any  other  time.  But  man  proposes  and  automobiles —  Well,  the 
machine  itself  furnished  the  climax." 

"Wasn't  it  something  of  an  anticlimax?" 


52  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"If  you  mean  that  I'd  have  had  a  worse  header  if  there  had  been 
no  interruption,  it's  very  likely." 

"I  can  hardly  consider  it  nattering  to  have  you  intimate  that  you 
would  rather  be  thrown  from  an  automobile — ■" 

''Than  thrown  over  by  you.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  your  own 
powers." 

She  permitted  her  eyes  to  meet  his  for  a  brief  time. 

"  There's  no  harm  done,  except  to  the  automobile." 

"  You  don't  know.     When  we  had  our  smash-up  I  lost  my  head — " 

"Then  our  accident  was  not  without  its — casualties." 

"And  I  think  that  there  is  something  which  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"Is  it  important?" 

"  You  must  judge.     I  wish  to  be  an  honorable  criminal." 

"Aren't  the  terms  contradictory?" 

"  A  fault  confessed  is  half  atoned  for,  but  I  am  not  sorry  at  all." 

"  Of  course,  if  there  were  mitigating  circumstances — " 

"I  should  call  this  an  aggravating  one." 

"Be  careful!     You  don't  seem  to  be  helping  yourself." 

But  she  beamed  upon  him  for  a  moment,  though  again  she  looked 
away. 

"It  was — you." 

"What!" 

"You  were  the  circumstance." 

"I — a  circumstance!  But  how  can  a  circumstance  be  five  feet 
six  inches  high  and  weigh  a  hundred  and  twenty-three  pounds?" 

"That's  the  trouble.  And  have  the  prettiest,  palest,  most  appeal- 
ing face.  And  closed  eyes  that  I'd  have  given  all  the  world  to  see 
open — " 

"A  most  remarkable  kind  of  circumstance." 

"It  was.  You  know,  when  the  accident  happened,  for  a  few 
moments  you  were  unconscious." 

She  busied  herself  winding  a  blade  of  grass  about  her  finger. 

"  My  heart  stood  still.  I  couldn't  breathe.  I  lifted  you  and  carried 
you  away  from  the  machine.  I  put  you  down  here.  On  my  knees 
at  your  side  I  bent  over  you,  and  as  you  lay  there  unconscious — " 

"Yes." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  53 

"I  kissed  you!" 

"Do  you  think  that  was— pretty  behavior?" 

"I  admit  it  was  bad  enough." 

''And  the  bitter  disappointment  I  must  naturally  feel." 

"Why?" 

"To  find  that  one  whom  I  thought  I  could  trust — " 

"You  could — usually.  But,  remember,  I  had  just  asked  you  to 
marry  me.  The  next  instant  I  found  you  lying  before  me  appar- 
ently lifeless.  Think  of  the  shock.  I  wasn't  a  doctor.  I  was  in 
love  with  you." 

"You  don't  pretend  to  claim  that  there  is  any  recommendation 
in  any  of — the  means  that  you  employed  to  bring  me  to?" 

"  On  reflection,  I  believe  that  I  might  have  done  worse.  Anyway, 
you  opened  your  eyes." 

"Any  one  would  at  such  conduct." 

"What  do  you  think  I  should  have  done?" 

"I  think  that  you  should  have  behaved  toward  me  as  a  friend 
and  a  brother,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  a  sister." 

"Why  not  your  grandmother?" 

"I  am  sure  that  would  be  an  ideal  example." 

"And  I  am  a  cad  and  a  coward  and  a  thief  and  a  brute  and  a 
beast — " 

"N— no." 

For  a  moment  she  paused. 

"What  will  you  think  of  me?" 

"The  question  before  the  house  is  what  you  think  of  me?" 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make  that  may  change  everything." 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

"I — I  wasn't  unconscious  at  all." 

"Not  when  I  lifted  you  up  and  brought  you  here?" 

"No.  I  was  a  little  bewildered  and  I  suppose  that  I  closed  my 
eyes.     And  then  you  jumped  at  me  and  carried  me  off." 

"And  you  let  me — " 

"I  suppose  I  let  you  kiss  me.  Though,  of  course,  I  never  could 
have  anticipated  that  you  would." 

"But  how  could  I  know  that  you  hated  me?" 


54  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"What?"  she  asked  in  the  most  unmistakable  surprise 

"Well,  if  not  that,  that  you  didn't  feel  toward  me  as  I  wanted 
you  to  feel." 

"And  how  do  you  know  that  I  didn't?" 

"  On  the  very  best  authority — yourself." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  the  sincerest  astonishment. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  so." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  think  you  make  a  mistake  when  you  say  that 
you  were  not  unconscious.  You  might  have  fainted  for  a  moment 
and  not  known  it.  I  should  not  have  kissed  you — but  I'm  glad  that  I 
did." 

"Oh!" 

"I  didn't  know  when  I  did  it,  of  course,  or  I  shouldn't  have  done 
it;   but—" 

"Know  what?" 

"  What  I  learned  from  what  you  said." 

"I  said  something?" 

"You  spoke  a  name — " 

"Yes,  what  if  I  did?" 

"You  said— 'Tom.'" 

"Very  well;"  she  looked  at  him  swiftly,  shyly,  almost  appealingly, 
and  then  glanced  away. 

"  Of  course,  as  my  name  is  Harry — " 

"Your  name  is  Harry!"  In  her  excitement  she  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  stood  looking  down  at  him. 

"Certainly." 

"Oh!"  she  moaned,  putting  her  hands  over  her  face.  "How 
awful!    What  shall  I  do!" 

"Believe  me,  that  your  secret,  which  I  learned  in  this  accidental 
manner,  is  quite  safe  with  me." 

"How  can  I  make  you  understand?"  She  hesitated.  "I  told 
you  that  I  was  not  unconscious." 

"Yes." 

"So  that  I  knew  what  I  said  perfectly." 

"You  knew  that  you  used  the  name?" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  55 

"Of  course,  I  did;"  and  she  added  boldly,  though  she  blushed 
heavily,  "I  did  it  on  purpose." 

"But,  why?" 

"  Why  ?  It's  an  awful  thing  for  me  to  tell  you — to  confess,  but  I 
thought  that  it  was — your  name." 

"Tom!" 

"I  was  with  your  Aunt  Margaret  coming  across  in  the  steamer, 
and  she  did  nothing  but  talk  about  you  and  always  called  you  ' Tom.'" 

"So  she  does,"  he  cried,  jumping  up  in  sudden  enlightenment. 
"It's  the  name  I  used  to  be  called  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  I  hadn't 
heard  it  for  so  long  that  I  had  forgotten  that  it  was  ever  used.  And 
you  thought  that  it  was  my  name,  and  you  were  not  unconscious.  I 
don't  understand,  and  yet — " 

"The  conclusion  is  rather — obvious." 

"I  wonder,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  drew  nearer  to  her,  "if  it  could 
be  that—" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  in  the  faintest  whisper. 


TO    BE    OR    NOT   TO   BE. 


I'D  rather  be  a  Could  Be, 
If  I  cannot  be  an  Are; 
For  a  Could  Be  is  a  May  Be, 
With  a  chance  of  touching  par. 

I  had  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Might  Have  Been,  by  far; 

For  a  Might  Be  is  a  Hasn't  Been 
But  a  Has  was  once  an  Are! 

Also  an  Are  is  Is  and  Am ; 

A  Was  was  all  of  these; 
So  I'd  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Hasn't,  if  you  please. 


56  WERNER'S   READINGS 


MISS   AMELIA'S    COLORED    LOCHINVAR. 


CHARLES   T.    GRILLEY. 


\     COON  named  Ephrum  Bascom  loved  a  Miss  Amelia  Starr; 
-C\.     One  day  she  told  him  'bout  th'  ride  of  gay  young  Lochinvar; 
She  filled  Eph's  head  with  romance  'bout  knights  of  high  degree, 
Of  barons  bold,  an'  ladies  fair,  an'  deeds  of  chivalry. 

Next  day  Eph  stole  an  old  gray  mule,  then  made  a  suit  of  tin, 

An'  like  those  knights  he'd  heard  about,  rode  forth  his  bride  to  win. 

He  galloped  to  Amelia's  house,  and  as  she  lay  in  bed, 

She  heard  Eph's  voice  out  in  the  road,  an'  this  is  what  he  said- 

"  O,  Miss  Amelia,  I've  come  to  steal  you, 

An'  take  you  'way  from  heah,  I  don't  care  whar; 

Come  be  my  blushing  bride ;  on  dis  milk-white  steed  we'll  ride, 

So  come  out  an'  join  your  colored  Lochinvar." 

The  noise  awoke  Amelia's  dad,  an',  thinking  that  some  thief 
Was  prowling  'round,  he  grabbed  his  gun  an'  started  after  Eph. 
Through  the  window-pane  he  thrust  th'  gun,  then  fired  at  Ephraim's 

head ; 
The  shot  went  low,  an'  the  ol'  gray  mule  received  the  charge  instead. 

For  a  minute  all  was  still  as  death,  then  waiting  for  no  more, 
The  mule  let  out  an  awful  wail,  then  down  th'  road  he  tore. 
Amelia  called  out,  "Lochinvar,  oh,  come  back  to  your  bride," 
But  Eph  had  other  business,  an'  thus  to  her  replied : 

"  O,  Miss  Amelia,  I  got  to  leave  you; 

I'm  gwine  to  let  you  stay  jes  whar  yo'  are; 

Don't  talk  no  mo'  to  me  'bout  dem  knights  an'  chivalry, — 

Yo'  can  git  some  othah  coon  fo'  Lochinvar." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  57 

WHITE   AZALEAS. 


HELEN   ELLSWORTH   WRIGHT. 


I  TELL  you,  stranger,  it's  no  use.  I  couldn't  part  with  that  clay- 
hill  up  yonder,  not  if  your  wife  has  took  a  dozen  notions  to  it, 
and  you  was  to  pay  me  ten  thousand  dollars  an  acre.  Why,  man, 
I  don't  want  your  money.  I'm  forty-six  years  old  this  fall,  I've  got 
enough  to  last,  and  there  ain't  a  chick  nor  a  child  to  leave  it  to,  and 
that  hill — well,  it's   no  use,  that's  all. 

The  place  ain't  good  for  raisin'  much,  just  pines  and  berry  brambles 
and  them  there  white  azalies,  but  when  it  comes  my  turn  to  die  I 
want  'em  to  leave  me  there.  See  that  place  where  the  trees  grow 
thick  an'  it's  dark  an'  cool  an'  still?  That's  it!  That's  where  I'm 
going  to  lie. 

Your  wife,  she  fancied  that?  Peculiar,  ain't  it?  Womenfolks 
likes  light  most  always,  light  and  sunny  parts,  though  once  I  knowed 
a  girl — but  that  was  twenty  year  ago. 

Buy  half  my  hill,  you  say?  No,  sirree,  you  can't  have  half  an 
inch.     I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  you  can't  buy  half  an  inch. 

Mebby  you  city  folks  can't  understand,  but,  I'll  tell  you  what, 
there's  things  up  here  that  money  couldn't  touch,  and  that  there  spot's 
one  of  'em.     Confound  it,  man,  I'll  tell  you  why! 

You  see,  'twas  more  than  twenty  year  ago  that  I  come  here  to  see 
a  friend  o'  mine  named  Ephraim  Jones.  You  knew  Eph  Jones? 
Well,  that's  odd,  ain't  it?  He  an'  I  was  chums.  This  place  was 
mighty  lively  then.  Those  cabins  there  was  full  of  folks,  an'  men 
was  takin'  fortunes  out  o'  quartz  most  every  day. 

The  school-house  stood  up  yonder  near  my  hill,  an'  the  teacher's 
name — well,  that  don't  matter  anyhow.  I  couldn't  say  what  she  was 
like;  I  couldn't  tell  a  blind  man  what  a  lily  was!  Your  cities  never  grow 
that  kind,  no  more  than  they  do  sugar  pines  or  rhododendron  flowers. 

Well,  we  was — friends.  We  used  to  go  for  white  azalies,  she 
an'  I,  upon  my  hill  when  school  was  through.  It  wasn't  my  hill  then, 
not  till  long  after,  when  she'd  gone  away,  and  yet  we  called  it  "  ours." 


58  WERNER'S  READINGS 

We  used  to  sit  there  where  the  trees  grow  thick  an'  plan  out  what 
the  years  would  bring.  We'd  sit  there  till  the  shadows  came  an' 
shut  the  world  away,  an'  then  were  glad,  for  all  the  night  an'  all  the 
stars  seemed  made  for  just  us  two!  The  wood-owls  nested  in  those 
1  ees,  an'  when  I'd  say  I  loved  some  one,  they'd  always  ask  me, 
'•  vVho?" 

An'  so  the  summer  slipped  along  an'  time  come  for  me  to  go.  I 
was  to  fix  a  little  home,  an'  when  next  the  white  azalies  bloomed  to 
go  back  again  for  her. 

Well,  first  she  wrote  me  regular  every  week,  and  then  her  letters 
got  to  soundin'  queer,  like  one  who  laughs  an'  wants  to  cry,  an'  then — 
well,  then  they  stopped.  Those  were  busy  times  with  us,  but  I  wrote 
by  every  stage. 

One  evenin' — 'twas  along  in  May,  an'  I  was  potterin'  round  at 
dusk  a-doin'  up  the  chores — I  saw  a  man  come  down  the  trail.  The 
man  was  Ephraim  Jones.  He  never  said  a  word — just  reached  out 
an'  took  my  hand,  an'  wrung  it  hard,  an'  kind  o'  choked.  By  and 
by  he  said : 

"Look  here,  old  man,  it  takes  an  awful  blast,  you  know,  to  shatter 
out  that  hard  gray  rock  so  you  can  get  the  gold.  Well,  the  good  Lord 
blasts  us  hard  sometimes, — perhaps  to  find  our  gold." 

Then  he  told  me  how  her  father'd  got  in  debt,  an'  gone  away, 
an'  left  her  mother  sick  an'  them  two  little  sisters  on  her  hands,  with 
nothing  but  the  money  from  her  school;  how  she  had  tried  to  keep 
it  from  me  all  those  weeks,  and  then — a  man  had  come,  a  Judge  from 
heaven  knows  where,  an'  old  enough  to — 

Say,  stranger,  be  this  sun  too  hot  ?  You  look  so  kind  o'  faint  an' 
fuddled  out.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  have  me  stop  my  yarn?  Go  on? 
Well,  there  ain't  much  more  to  tell. 

The  Judge  he  come  a-courtin'  her,  but  she  said  always,  "No." 
He  told  her  how  he'd  take  them  all,  an'  make  her  mother  well,  an' 
send  the  girls  away  to  school,  an'  do  a  heap  o'  things. 

Then  winter  come,  an'  they  hadn't  even  wood,  nor  clothes,  nor 
things  to  eat.  The  mother  blamed  her  some  an'  cried;  the  little 
girls  both  teased  and  coaxed,  an'  the  Judge— come  every  day.     And 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  59 

so  the  winter  turned  to  early  spring,  but  things  weren't  better  much. 

One  evenin'  Ephraim  come  across  our  hill  an'  found  her  up  there, 
where  the  trees  grow  thick.  The  leaves  were  comin'  on  the  white 
azalie  plants,  an'  her  hands  were  full  of  tender  little  shoots. 

"Go,  take  him  these,"  she  said,  "and  say  when  they  bloom  I'll 
be  another  man 's  bride.  My  mother  and  the  children  need  me  most 
my  duty  is  to  them!" 

Well,  the  Judge,  he  married  her  an'  took  'em  all  away.  And  I? 
I've  got  them  little  dry  shoots  yet, — an'  shall  have  always,  too! 

Ephraim  went  down  to  see  'em  once — he  knew  the  Judge,  you 
know.  They  were  livin'  in  a  splendid  house,  with  carriages  an'  every- 
thing. The  Judge  was  doin'  all  he  could,  but  money  can't  buy  love! 
She  seemed  so  kind  o'  sweet  an'  still,  like  a  lily  that's  been  picked  an' 
taken  from  the  sun. 

There  was  a  baby,  too,  a  puny  mite — her  baby — an'  she  called 
him — Joe!    I  guess  the  Judge,  he  didn't  know  what  for,  but  it  was — me! 

What  is  it,  stranger?  Be  you  ill?  Perhaps  the  air's  too  light 
up  here,  an'  your  heart  ain't  over-strong! 

Well,  to  go  on,  he  died,  did  little  Joe,  an'  she  sent  Ephraim  word. 
The  white  azalies  was  in  bloom,  an'  I  got  most  a  hundred  sprays,  an' 
Eph,  he  took  'em  down.  The  little  chap  had  lots  o'  flowers,  all 
boughten  ones,  you  know;  but  mine  the  mother  took — an'  held  'em 
close — an'  cried.     (Confound  this  smoke!     It's  getting  in  your  eyes?); 

Well,  after  that  they  went  away,  somewhere  in  foreign  parts,  and 
that  was — fifteen  year  ago!  The  Judge,  if  he's  a-livin'  now,  must 
be  as  old  as — you! 

The  pines  keep  singin'  on  our  hill,  an'  everything  grows  just  the 
same  as  when  we  two  was  young,  an'  some  day — 

Say,  you've  seen  quicksilver  in  with  gold?  The  part  that  isn't 
used  rolls  down  the  sluice  in  little  shiny  balls,  but  when  they  meet 
they  form  a  whole  so  well  that  nobody  can  tell  just  which  is  which. 
The  gold  divides  it  mebby,  by  an'  by,  but  each  takes  somewhat  of 
the  other's  part  an'  holds  it  till  they  meet  again,  to  give  it  back  with 
its  own  self  besides.     Well,  hearts  is  just  like  that. 

You  see,  I  couldn't  sell  the  place, — it's  "ours!"  In  this  world 
she's  the  Judge's  wife,  but  in  the  next — she's  mine! 


60  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Why,  man,  for  God's  sake,  what's  gone  wrong?  She's  what? 
She's  what,  you  say? 

The  Judge?  Your  wife!  Consumption,  man?  Dear  Heaven, 
be  more  kind! 

Say,  mister,  that  clay  hill  is — yours.  I'm  goin' — I'm  goin'  away. 
You'll  pay  me?  No.  You've  paid  a  thousand  times.  You've 
brought  her  back — to  die.  You  tell  her  this:  A  queer  old  chap,  rough 
as  the  gray  rock  peepin'  through  the  hill,  says  the  owls  have  always 
nested  where  the  trees  grow  thick,  an'  the  white  azalies  have  waited— 
twenty  year! 


WHAT   THE   MOSQUITO    SANG. 


"  TT — U — M!  hum!  shut  your  eyes,  sir. 

J-X     The  noise  you  hear  is  flies,  sir; 
Awh — m !  don't  be  scared,  sir. 
Go  to  sleep — your  sheets  are  aired,  sir. 
Hu — m — a  hymn  it  is  I'm  singing. 
Its  music  in  your  ear  is  ringing. 
I  won't  sting  you,  sting  you,  s — t — i — ng! 
I'd  scorn  to  do  so  mean  a  thing ! 
A  h — u — m — bug  it  is.     i"  don't  bite. 
Take  care!  don't  slap;  I  never  fight. 
Slap!  whang! 

Take  care,  you  nearly  hit  me. 
'Twas  me,  'twas  me,  my  friend,  that  bit  ye. 
There — there  again!  it  comes  to  blows. 
You  fool,  it  didn't  touch  your  nose ! 
What  in  the  world's  the  use  of  slapping 
Your  own  face,  when  you  should  be  napping  ? 
A  he — m!  Don't  be  alarmed; 
You  really  ought  to  be  quite  charmed. 
H — u — m!  hum!     Don't  play  the  boy; 
I  merely  sang  your  lullaby. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  6» 

A  whang  again!  there,  there  you  go! 
No  use — you  can't  hit  me,  you  know. 
Now  go  to  sleep.     Oh  ho!  you're  going. 
Now  for  a  feast,  my  friend;  I  'go  in.' 
All  right — he's  gone;  I'll  have  my  fill. 
So  now,  old  Sleepy,  here's  my  bill!" 


WHAT   A   PITY. 


WE  had  paused  to  watch  the  quiver 
Of  faint  moonbeams  on  the  river 
By  the  gate. 
We  had  heard  something  calling, 
And  a  heavy  dew  is  falling, 
Yet  we  wait. 

It  is  no  doubt  very  silly 
To  stay  out  in  all  this  chilly 

Evening  mist. 
Still  I  linger  hesitating, 
For  her  lips  are  plainly  waiting 

To  be  kissed. 

So  I  stooped  to  take  possession 
Of  the  coveted  concession 

On  the  spot; 
But  she  draws  back  with  discreetness 
Saying,  with  tormenting  sweetness: 

"I  guess  not." 

Her  whole  manner  is  provoking. 
"  Oh,  well,  I  was  only  joking," 

I  reply. 
She  looks  pentiently  pretty, 
As  she  answers :   "What  a  pity! 

So  was  I." 


62  WERNER'S  READINGS 

SHE   FELT   OF   HER   BELT. 


{SAW  her  go  shopping  in  stylish  attire, 
And  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 
Her  walk  was  as  free  as  a  springy  steel  wire, 
And  many  a  rubberneck  turned  to  admire 

As  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 
She  wondered  if  all  the  contraptions  back  there 
Were  fastened  just  right — 'twas  an  unceasing  care, 

So  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

I  saw  her  at  church  as  she  entered  her  pew, 

And  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 
She  had  on  a  skirt  that  was  rustly  and  new, 
And  didn't  quite  know  what  the  fastenings  might  do, 

So  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 
She  figdeted  round  while  the  first  prayer  was  said, 
She  fumbled  about  while  the  first  hymn  was  read — 

Oh,  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

Jack  told  her  one  night  that  he  loved  her  like  mad, 
And  she  felt 
For  her  belt 
At  the  back. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  63 

She  didn;t  look  sorry,  she  didn't  look  glad- 
She  looked  like  she  thought,  "Well,  that  wasn't  so  bad," 

And  she  felt 

For  her  belt 

At  the  back. 
But — well,  I  don't  think  'twas  a  great  deal  of  harm, 
For  what  should  the  maiden  have  found  but  an  arm 

When  she  felt 

For  her  belt 

At  the  back. 


SERGIUS   TO   THE   LION. 


GEN.    LEW   WALLACE. 


THE  scene  is  laid  in  Constantinople,  during  the  reign  of  the  last 
Constantine.  The  Princess  Irene,  kinswoman  to  the  Emperor 
and  greatly  beloved  by  all  the  people,  is  a  firm  friend  of  the  monk 
Sergius,  who,  a  short  time  previous  to  the  opening  of  our  scene,  pub- 
licly announced  "I  believe  in  God  and  in  Jesus  Christ,  His  Son." 
For  this  he  was  called  "the  Heretic,"  and  condemned  to  the  old  lion 
Tamerlane,  in  the  Cynegion.  Nilo,  a  huge  African,  is  attached  to 
the  Princess  Irene  and  Sergius,  and  has  been  imprisoned  on  account 
of  services  rendered  to  them.  The  Princess,  by  bribery,  has  con- 
trived to  reach  the  gate  through  which  Sergius  is  to  enter  the  Cynegion. 
The  gate  was  open-barred,  and  permitted  a  view  of  nearly  the  whole 
circular  interior.  The  spectacle  presented  was  so  startling  that  she 
caught  one  of  the  bars  for  support.  Throwing  back  her  veil,  she 
looked,  breathing  sighs  which  were  almost  gasps.  The  circular  arena 
was  fifty  feet  in  diameter  and  thickly  strewn  with  wet  sand.  There 
were  walls  twenty  feet  high,  shutting  it  in  like  a  pit,  and  on  top  of  them, 
on  the  ascending  seats  back  to  the  last  one,  were  spectators,  men, 
women,  and  children,  compacted  against  the  sky.  Thousands  and 
thousands!    She   clasped   her  hands   and   prayed.     "Merciful   God! 


64  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Are  these  beings  indeed  in  Thy  likeness?"  Suddenly  the  crowd 
became  impatient,  and  the  occupants  of  the  benches  applauded  long 
and  merrily,  crying,  "Tamerlane!  Tamerlane!"  The  woman  shrank 
back  terrified.  At  length  a  man  entered  the  arena  from  the  western 
gate.  Going  to  the  center,  he  looked  carefully  around  him;  as  if 
content  with  the  inspection,  he  went  next  to  a  cell  and  knocked.  Two 
persons  responded  by  coming  out  of  the  door;  one,  an  armed  guards- 
man, the  other,  the  monk.  Instantly  the  concourse  on  the  benches 
arose.  There  was  no  shouting,  but  directly  a  word  began  passing 
from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"  The  heretic !     The  heretic ! " 

His  guard  conducted  him  to  the  center  of  the  field  and  left  him 
there.  Sergius,  calm,  resigned,  fearless,  turned  to  the  east,  rested 
,his  hands  on  his  breast  palm  to  palm,  closed  his  eyes  and  raised  his 
face.  They  who  saw  him  with  his  head  upturned,  the  sunlight  a 
radiant  imprint  on  his  forehead,  and  wanting  only  a  nimbus  to  be 
the  Christ  in  apparition,  ceased  jeering  him;  it  seemed  to  them  that 
in  a  moment,  without  effort,  he  had  withdrawn  his  thoughts  from 
this  world  and  surrendered  himself.  They  could  see  his  lips  move. 
He  was  saying,  "I  believe  in  God  and  in  Jesus  Christ,  His  Son." 

A  trumpet  rang  out  from  the  stand.  A  door  at  the  left  of  the 
tunnel-gate  was  then  slowly  raised;  whereupon  a  lion  stalked  out 
of  the  darkened  depths,  and  stopped  on  the  edge  of  the  den.  He 
turned  his  ponderous  head  from  right  to  left  and  up  and  down,  like 
a  prisjoner  questioning  if  he  were  indeed  at  liberty.  Having  viewed 
the  skiy  and  the  benches,  and  filled  his  deep  chest  with  ample  draughts 
of  fresh  air,  suddenly  Tamerlane  noticed  the  monk.  The  head  rose 
higher,  the  ears  erected;  and,  snuffing  like  a  hound,  he  fretted  his 
shaggy  mane;  his  yellow  eyes  changed  to  coals  alive,  and  he  growled 
and  lashed  his  side  with  his  tail.  A  majestic  figure  was  he  now.  He 
stepped  out  into  the  arena,  and,  shrinking  close  to  the  sand,  inched 
forward,  creeping  toward  the  object  of  his  wonder. 

From  the  man  to  the  lion — from  the  lion  to  the  man — the  multitude 
turned  shivering.  Presently  the  lion  stopped,  whined,  and  behaved 
uneasily.     Was  he  afraid  ?    He  began  trotting  around  at  the  base  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  65 

the  wall,  halting  before  the  gates  and  seeking  an  escape.  From  the 
trot  he  broke  into  a  gallop,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  monk. 
A  murmur  descended  from  the  benches.  It  was  the  people  recovering 
from  their  horror,  and  impatient.  They  yelled  at  the  cowardly  beast, 
"Shame,  shame,  Tamerlane!  shame!"  In  the  height  of  this  tempest 
the  gate  of  the  tunnel  under  the  grand  stand  opened  quickly,  and 
was  as  quickly  shut.  Death  brings  no  deeper  hush  than  fell  upon 
the  assemblage  then.  A  woman  was  crossing  the  sand  toward  the 
monk!  Round  sped  the  lion,  forward  she  went!  Two  victims! 
Well  worth  the  monster's  hunger  through  the  three  days  to  be  so 
banqueted  on  the  fourth!  She  was  robed  in  white.  The  dress,  the 
action,  the  seraphic  face,  were  not  unknown.  Recognition  was  in- 
stantaneous, and  through  the  eager,  crowded  ranks  the  whisper  flew: 

"God  o'Mercy!    It  is  the  Princess — the  Princess  Irene!" 

Strong  men  covered  their  eyes,  women  fainted.  Innumerable 
arms  were  outstretched,  and  cries  filled  the  arena  with,  "Save  her! 
Let  the  lion  be  killed!" 

Then  Nilo  looked  out  of  his  cell.  He  saw  the  monk,  the  Princess, 
and  the  lion  making  its  furious  circuit — saw  them,  and  retreated; 
but  a  moment  after  reappeared,  attired  in  the  savageries  which  were 
his  delight.  In  the  waist-belt  he  had  a  short  sword,  and  over  his 
left  shoulder  a  roll  like  a  fisherman's  net.  The  Princess  reached 
Sergius  safely,  and  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Fly,  little  mother — by  the  way  you  came — fly!  O  God!  it  is 
too  late." 

"  No,  I  will  not  fly.  Did  I  not  bring  you  to  this  ?  Let  death  come 
to  us  both.  Better  the  quick  work  of  the  lion  than  the  slow  torture  of 
conscience.  I  will  not  fly.  We  will  die  together.  I,  too,  believe  in 
God  and  in  Jesus  Christ,  His  Son." 

She  reached  up  and  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  repe- 
tition of  the  Creed  and  her  companionship  restored  his  courage,  and 
smiling,  despite  the  tears  on  his  cheeks,  he  said: 

"Very  well,  little  mother.  The  army  of  the  martyrs  will  receive 
us,  and  the  clear  Lord  is  at  His  mansion  door  to  let  us  in." 

The  lion  now  ceased  galloping.     Stopping  over  in  the  west  quartei 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

of  the  field,  he  turned  his  big,  burning  eyes  on  the  two  thus  resigning 
themselves,  and,  crouching,  put  himself  in  motion  toward  them — 
his  mane  all  on  end,  his  jaws  agape,  the  crimson  tongue  lolling  adrip 
below  the  lips,  bent  upon  his  prey.  The  near  thunder  of  his  roaring 
was  exultant  and  awful.  Nilo,  taking  position  between  the  devoted 
pair  and  their  enemy,  shook  the  net  from  his  shoulder  with  practiced 
hand,  and  proceeded  to  give  an  example  of  his  practice  with  lions  in 
the  jungles.  Keeping  the  brute  steadily  eye  to  eye,  he  managed  so 
that  while  retaining  the  leaden  balls  tied  to  its  disengaged  corners 
one  in  each  hand,  the  net  was  presently  in  an  extended  roll  on  the 
ground  before  him.  Leaning  forward  then,  his  hands  bent  inwardly 
knuckle  to  knuckle  at  his  breast,  he  waited  the  attack — to  the  beholders 
a  figure  in  shining  ebony,  giantesque  in  proportions,  Phidian  in  grace. 
Tamerlane  stopped.  Nilo's  intent  was  to  bide  the  lion's  leap,  and 
catch  and  entangle  him  in  the  net. 

Just  at  this  crisis  there  was  a  tumuli  in  the  grand  stand.  Those 
who  turned  that  way  saw  a  man  in  glistening  armor  pushing  through 
the  brethren  there  in  most  unceremonious  sort.  In  haste  to  reach 
the  front,  he  stepped  from  bench  to  bench.  On  the  edge  of  the  wall 
he  tossed  his  sword  and  shield  into  the  arena,  and  next  instant  leaped 
after  them.  Before  astonishment  was  spent,  before  they  could  com- 
prehend the  intruder,  or  make  up  their  minds  to  so  much  as  yell,  he 
had  fitted  the  shield  to  his  arm,  snatched  up  the  sword,  and  run  to 
the  point  of  danger.  There  he  took  place  behind  Nilo,  but  in  front 
of  the  Princess  and  the  monk.  His  agility,  his  amazing  spirit,  together 
with  the  thought  that  the  fair  woman  had  yet  another  champion, 
wrought  the  whole  multitude  into  ecstasy.  They  sprang  upon  the 
benches,  and  those  who  but  a  little  before  had  cheered  the  lion  now 
prayed  aloud  for  his  victims.  Tamerlane  surveyed  the  benches 
haughtily  once,  then  set  forward  again,  intent  on  Nilo.  The  move- 
ment, in  its  sinuous,  flexile  gliding,  resembled  somewhat  a  serpent's 
crawl.  And  now  he  neither  roared  nor  growled.  The  lolling  tongue 
dragged  the  sand ;  the  beating  of  the  -tail  was  like  pounding  with  a 
flail;  the  mane  all  erect  trebly  enlarged  the  head;  and  the  eyes  were 
like  live  coals  in  a  burning  bush.     The  people  hushed.     Nilo  stood 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  67 

firm;  and  behind  him  die  Italian,  Count  Corti,  kept  guard.  Thirty 
feet  away — twenty-five — twenty — then  the  great  beast  stopped,  col- 
lected himself,  and  with  an  indescribable  roar  launched  clear  of  the 
ground.  Up,  at  the  same  time  and  forward  on  divergent  lines,  went 
the  leaden  balls;  the  netting  they  dragged  after  them  had  the  appear- 
ance of  yellow  spray  blown  suddenly  in  the  air.  When  the  monster 
touched  the  sand  again  he  was  completely  enveloped.  And  before 
the  spectators  realized  the  altered  condition  Nilo  was  stabbing  him 
with  the  short,  glistening  sword.  The  pride  of  the  Cynegion  lay  still 
— then  the  benches  found  voice:  "Free!  free'  Sergius  is  free  I 
Heaven  hath  signified  its  will.     Let  him  go  free  1  " 


GOING   ON   AN   ERRAND. 


A  POUND  of  tea  at  one  and  three, 
And  a  pot  of  raspberry  jam ; 
Two  new-laid  eggs,  a  dozen  pegs, 
And  a  pound  of  rashers  of  ham. 

I'll  say  it  over  all  the  way, 
And  then  I'm  sure  not  to  forget, 

For  if  I  chance  to  bring  things  wrong 
My  mother  gets  in  such  a  pet. 

A  pound  of  tea  at  one  and  three, 
And  a  pot  of  raspberry  jam; 

Two  new-laid  eggs,  a  dozen  pegs, 
And  a  pound  of  rashers  of  ham. 

There  in  the  hay  the  children  play — 
They're  having  such  j oily  fun; 

I'll  go  there,  too,  that's  what  I'll  dot 
As  soon  as  my  errands  are  done. 


68  WERNER'S  READINGS 

A  pound  of  tea  at  one  and  three, 
A  pot  of — er — new-laid  jam; 

Two  raspberry  eggs,  with  a  dozen  pegs, 
And  a  pound  of  rashers  of  ham. 

There's  Teddy  White  flying  his  kite, 
He  thinks  himself  grand,  I  declare; 

I'd  like  to  try  to  make  it  fly  sky-high, 
Ever  so  much  higher 
Than  the  old  church  spire, 

And  then — but  there — ■ 

A  pound  of  three  and  one  at  tea, 

A  pot  of  new-laid  jam ; 
Two  dozen  eggs,  some  raspberry  pegs, 

And  a  pound  of  rashers  of  ham. 

Now,  here's  the  shop;  outside  I'll  stop 
And  run  my  orders  through  again ; 

I  haven't  forgot — no,  ne'er  a  jot — 
It  shows  I'm  pretty  'cute,  that's  plain. 

A  pound  of  three  at  one  and  tea, 
A  dozen  of  raspberry  ham; 

A  pot  of  eggs,  with  a  dozen  pegs, 
And  a  rasher  of  new-laid  jam. 


SHE    COULDN'T   HELP   IT. 


"  f\H-,  I'm  sure  I've  met  you  before,"  declared  a  smart  young 
Vy  man  to  a  pretty  woman  whose  name  of  course  he  had  not 
caught.  Ignoring  the  warning  frown  from  a  friend,  he  rushed  on: 
"Why,  of  course  I  used  to  see  you  around  a  lot  with  Blank-Dash;  now 
didn't  I?"     And  he  smiled  triumphantly. 

"I  can't  deny  it,"  she  returned  sweetly,  "but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
I  used  to  be  married  to  him." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  69 


HYMN   BEFORE   ACTION, 


RUDYARD    KIPLING. 


THE  earth  is  full  of  anger, 
The  seas  are  dark  with  wrath? 
The  Nations  in  their  harness 

Go  up  against  our  path ! 
Ere  yet  we  loose  the  legions— 
Ere  yet  we  draw  the  blade., 
Jehovah  of  the  Thunders, 
Lord  God  of  Battles,  aid! 

High  lust  and  froward  bearing, 

Proud  heart,  rebellious  brow=> 
Deaf  ear  and  soul  uncaring, 

We  seek  Thy  mercy  now: 
The  sinner  that  forswore  Thee? 

The  fool  that  passed  Thee  hy9 
Our  times  are  known  before  Thse~- 

Lord,  grant  us  strength  to  dieJ 

For  those  who  kneel  beside  us 

At  altars  not  Thine  own, 
Who  lack  the  lights  that  guide  us. 

Lord,  let  their  faith  atone; 
If  wrong  we  did  to  call  them, 

By  honor  bound  they  came,? 
Let  not  Thy  wrath  befall  them. 

But  deal  to  us  the  blame 

From  panic,  pride,  and  terror, 

Revenge  that  knows  no  rein- 
Light  haste  and  lawless  error, 
Protect  us  yet  again. 


70  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Cloak  Tbou  our  undeserving, 
Make  firm  the  shuddering  breath, 

In  silence  and  unswerving 
To  taste  Thy  lesser  death ! 

Ah,  Mary  pierced  with  sorrow, 

Remember,  reach,  and  save 
The  soul  that  comes  to-morrow 

Before  the  God  that  gave! 
Since  each  was  born  of  woman, 

For  each  at  utter  need — 
True  comrade  and  true  foeman, 

Madonna,  intercede! 

E'en  now  their  vanguard  gathers, 

E'en  now  we  face  the  fray — 
As  Thou  didst  help  our  fathers, 

Help  Thou  our  host  to-day ! 
Fulfilled  of  signs  and  wonders, 

In  life,  in  death,  made  clear — 
Jehovah  of  the  Thunders, 

Lord  God  of  Battles,  hear! 


A   PUBLIC   PROPOSAL. 


SHE  entered  the  train  at  California  avenue  and  sat  down  with 
a  nervous  but  triumphant  air. 

"I  vas  mos'  got  lef,"  she  said,  addressing  the  passengers  cordially. 
"  'Cos  I  vasn't  so  young  like  I  vonce  vas,  und  de  train  hurry  up.  Vonce 
I  vould  yump  on — but  I  got  some  crandchilluns  now  alreadty — und 
I  vas  better  vait  a  minute  en  go  deadt." 

Her  blue  eyes  were  mild  and  deeper  roses  burned  in  her  cheek 
than  American  lassies  wear.  An  old  German  right  across  the  aisle 
looked  at  her  from  around  the  Staats  Zeitung's  edge,  saying  at  intervals 
admiringly : 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  71 

"Veil,  veil,  veil!" 

After  awhile  the  man  began  to  cough  and  the  eyes  of  the  old  lady 
were  turned  toward  him  with  deep  interest  and  compassion  in  their 
depths. 

"Oh,  dot  vas  too  bat!     How  you  got  dat  col'  ?     Oh,  my!  oh,  my!" 

There  were  many  smiles  among  the  spectators,  but  the  old  man 
seemed  delighted  with  the  sympathy.  He  patted  his  chest  and  shook 
his  head,  to  show  how  serious  the  case  was,  and  the  old  lady  went 
oyer  to  the  vacant  seat  by  his  side,  leaning  forward  anxiously. 

"  Haf  you  got  some  honey  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Ah,  dot  est  goot.  Honey 
vast  de  bes'  medicine.  But  you  mus'n't  put  nodding  in  mit  it.  De 
Lord  sen'  de  bees  to  take  all  kindts  of  extracts  vat  ve  need  from  de 
flowers  und  crains.  Ef  he  vant  some  visky  in  it,  he  vould  tell!  Den 
he  make  it  all  up  nice  und  say:  'Here  vas  vat  I  make  you.'  Den 
ve  eat  und  lif  all  de  time,  alreadty." 

She  folded  her  mitted  hands  and  spoke,  quite  simply;  and  the 
old  man  beamed  and  nodded  impressively.     By  and  by  he  said : 

"You  got  some  chil'ren?  Yah?  Dat  ist  goot!  You  got  some 
money?     Nein?     Some — husban' — nein?" 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head  and  the  man  relapsed  into  meditative 
silence.     Then  he  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand. 

"Mebbe  ve  get  married  some  tay,  eh?"  he  asked,  questioningly, 
and,  all  unconscious  of  the  smiling  people  about  her,  she  gravely  nodded 
and  said : 

"Yah!" 


CUSHIONS  BUT   NO    SEATS, 


C^USHIONS  gay  on  every  chair, 
S     But  never  a  place  to  sit ; 
Cushions,  cushions  everywhere, 

Till  I  nearly  take  a  fit ; 
Cushions  strewn  upon  the  floor 

On  every  side  I  see — 
My  wife  has  taken  a  cushion  craze, 
And  there  is  no  room  for  me. 


12  WERNERS   READINGS 

GRANT— DYING. 


T.  C.  HARBAUGH. 


IT  seemed  to  me  that  yester-night 
I  heard  the  branches  sighing 
Beneath  my  window,  soft  and  low  : 

"The  great  war  chief  is  dying  !  " 
His  marches  o'er,  his  battles  won, 

His  bright  sword  sheathed  forever, 
The  grand  old  hero  stands  beside 

The  dark  and  silent  river ; 
Whilst  fame  for  him  a  chaplet  weaves 

Within  her  fairest  bowers, 
Of  Shiloh's  never-fading  leaves, 

And  Donelson's  bright  flowers; 
Grim  Vicksburg  gives  a  crimson  rose. 

Embalmed  in  deathless  story, 
And  Appomattox  adds  a  star 

To  crown  the  wreath  of  glory. 
He's  dying  now  ! — the  angel  Death, 

Insatiate  and  impartial, 
With  icy  fingers,  stoops  to  touch 

The  Union's  old  field-marshal, 
Who,  like  a  soldier  brave,  awaits 

The  summons  so  appalling, 
While  o'er  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 

The  silent  tear  is  falling. 

Still  in  his  veterans'  hearts  to-day 

His  battle  drums  are  beating; 
His  bugles  always  blew  advance — 

With  him  was  no  reti  eating  ; 
And  tenderly,  with  moistened  eyes, 

Columbia  bends  above  him, 
And  everywhere  the  sorrowed  heart 

Tells  how  the  people  love  him. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   3j.  73 

Prom  golden-lruitecl  orange  groves 
To  where  the  pines  are  sighing, 

The  winds  waft  messages  of  love 
To  Grant,  the  hero,  dying. 

The  Old  World  sends  across  the  waves 
A  token  of  its  sorrow; 

The  greatest  chief  alive  to-day- 
May  fall  asleep  to-morrow. 

O  touch  the  hero  gently,  Death  ! — 

The  land  is  filled  with  weeping ; 
And  be  his  passing  like  a  child's — 

The  counterfeit  of  sleeping. 
A  million  boys  in  blue  now  stand 

Around  their  dying  brother  ; 
The  mighty  world  knows  but  one  Grant, 

'Twill  never  know  another. 

So  let  him  die  with  honors  crowned 

To  live  fore'er  in  story  ; 
The  fields  he  won,  the  land  he  saved, 

Will  be  his  lasting  glory. 

0  mighty  Ajax  of  the  North  ! 
Old  field-marshal  immortal  ! 

My  saddened  heart's  with  thee  to-day 
Before  the  darkened  portal. 

1  listened  to  the  winds  last  night,  • 
How  mournful  was  the  sighing  ! 

It  seemed  to  me  a  nation's  sobs 
O'er  Grant,  the  soldier,  dying. 

O  touch  him,  touch  him  softly,  Death- 
Insatiate  and  impartial : 

He  is  the  Union's  mightiest  chief — 
My  cherished  old  field-marshal ! 


74  WERNER'S  READINGS 


A   WOMAN'S   DESCRIPTION   OF   A   PLAY. 


ZENAS   DANE. 


WELL,  you  know,"  she  says  after  the  matinee,  as  she  was  riding 
home  on  the  horse-car  with  a  woman  who  hadn't  seen  the. 
play,  but  wanted  to  know  all  about  it,  "you  see  there's  a  lovely  young 
lady  in  the  play,  and  oh!  she  did  wear  some  of  the  loveliest  dresses." 

"Oh,  tell  me  about  them!" 

"Well,  in  the  first  act  she  wears  a  pale  pink  silk  combined  with 
brocaded  ruby  plush  and — " 

"Oh,  that  must  have  been  perfectly  lovely." 

"It  was.  Well,  this  young  lady,  you  know  is  betrothed  to  a  hand- 
some and  rich  young  squire,  you  know,  and  she — oh!  I  must  tell  you 
about  the  dress  she  wore  in  the  second  act." 

"Yes,  do." 

"Well,  it  was  of  azure  satin  and  garnet  velvet,  with — " 

"How  lovely  it  must  have  been!" 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  it  had  a  watteau  pleat  in  the  back  and  an  immense 
train  of  the  velvet,  lined  with  pale  blue  satin,  and — " 

"Wasn't  it  beautiful ? " 

"Perfectly  lovely!  Well,  you  know,  this  rich  young  squire  is  a 
terrible  wreck  of  a  fellow.  Oh!  he's  just  perfectly  awful,  and  she 
don't  know  a  thing  about  it  and  she  loves  him  dreadfully;  so,  you 
know,  she — oh!  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  dress  she  wore  in 
the  third  act." 

"What  was  it  like?" 

"  Well,  it  was  a  lemon-colored  faille  Francaise,  worn  under  a  rich 
black  lace,  with — " 

"How  striking  that  must  have  been!" 

"It  was!  The  train  was  very  long  and  square,  and  the  corsage 
was  low,  and  she  had  lovely  arms'  and  shoulders,  and  she  wore  such 
masses  of  corn-colored  ribbons  and  flowers,  and — well,  there  is  an 
old  gypsy  in  the  play  who  is  perfectly  splendid,  you  know,  and  in  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  75 

fourth  act  this  young  lady  is  walking  in  the  garden  and  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  dress  she  wore  there." 

"Tell  me  about  it!" 

"Well,  it  was  of  white  and  crimson  combined  in  the  oddest  and 
loveliest  way,  and  she  wore  with  it  a  short  crimson  plush  cloak,  lined 
with  white,  and  thrown  back  over  her  shoulders  so  gracefully." 

"  She  must  have  looked  lovely." 

"She  did.  Then,  you  know,  there  is  an  old  countess  in  the  play 
who  wears  the  most  magnificent  black  velvet  and  lace  dress  I  ever 
saw." 

"I  think  black  velvet  so  elegant  for  old  ladies." 

"  So  do  I.  In  one  act  she  wears  a  very  striking  dress  of  black  and 
white,  with  her  hair  dressed  in  puffs  and  powdered,  you  know.  She 
did  look  so  sweet." 

"Yes,  she  must  have." 

"Well,  the  play  goes  on  and  it  becomes  real  exciting  in  the  fifth 
act,  because,  you  know,  this  squire  has  already  been  secretly  married, 
and  his  wife  comes  in  wearing  the  loveliest  drake-neck  green  ottoman 
silk  I  ever  saw."  * 

"Well,  this  wife  gets  suspicious.  Some  one  sends  her  a  note  or 
something,  you  know.  I  was  so  taken  up  with  her  dress  that  I  can't 
remember  just  how  it  was.  Anyhow  she  raises  an  awful  row  and 
it's  just  splendid.  Then  this  beautiful  young  lady  gets  suspicious, 
too,  you  know.  This  old  gypsy  puts  a  flea  in  her  ear,  and  she  hires 
a  detective,  you  know,  and  the  squire  finds  it  out,  and — that  part 
of  it  is  just  splendid,  too." 

"I  should  think  it  might  be." 

"It  was.  The  young  lady's  brother  fights  the  squire,  and  at  last 
the  young  lady  marries  an  artist,  and  her  wedding-dress  is  of — here's 
my  corner;  good-bye,  you  really  must  see  it,  good-bye;  it's  lovely, 
and — good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  come  and  see — " 

"Yes,  I  will;  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE   PLAIN  MISS   PRETTY. 


ETHEL  SIGSBEE  SMALL. 

THE  elder  Miss  Pretty  was  a  beauty.  I  saw  her  first  at  the  horse- 
show. 

"Who  is  she?"   I  asked  Algy  Vannerdale. 

"Miss  Pretty,"  said  Algy.  His  soul — all  he's  got — was  in  his 
eyes.     Somehow  it  irritated  me. 

"I'd  like  to  meet  her,"  I  said.  "But  if  you  have  any  claims,  or 
are  thinking  of  having  any  claims,  I'll  forego  the  introduction." 

"That's  all  right,  old,  man,"  said  Algy.  "I'd  give  my  soul  for 
claims,  but  then  so  would  every  man  she  knows,  and  she  knows  a  good 
many." 

"So  instead  of  one  I  am  to  have  one  hundred  rivals.  Ah,  well, 
she's  worth  fighting  for!     Known  her  long  ?  ' ' 

"She  only  came  yesterday.     That's  her  mother  with  her." 

"And  the  girl?" 

"What  girl?     Oh,  that's  the  plain  Miss  Pretty." 

That  night  Algy  very  gallantly  made  me  known  to  the  most  wonder- 
ful being  in  the  world.  She  did  not  talk  much,  so  far  as  I  remember, 
but  looked  at  me  so  that  I  nearly  forgot  to  ask'for  any  dances.  She 
had  none  to  give  me.  I  grew  desperate,  and  asked  her  if  she  would 
golf  with  me  the  next  day.     She  turned  those  wonderful  eyes  on  me. 

"  My  sister  golfs ;  I  do  not." 

Here  I  was  introduced  to  the  plain  Miss  Pretty,  and  as  the  situa- 
tion seemed  to  demand  it,  I  extended  my  invitation  to  her.  She 
accepted.  I  took  a  dance  with  the  plain  Miss  Pretty.  I  had  plenty 
to  choose  from,  and  we  sat  it  out,  as  she  said  she  was  tired.  I  watched 
the  dancers  and  Miss  Pretty  talked.  I  heard  very  little  until  she 
mentioned  her  sister's  name.     Beatrice!     How  it  suited  her. 

"Mine  is  Mary  Anne — that  suits  me,  too,  don't  you  think?" 

I  assured  her  it  did.  Then  I  hastened  to  make  matters  better — 
or  worse,  but  she  laughed  at  me. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  77 

"Good-natured,*'  I  said  to  myself,  "but  plain — quite  plain!" 

The  plain  Miss  Pretty  golfed  very  well.  On  the  way  to  and  from 
the  links  she  talked  of  her  sister. 

"Isn't  she  a  dream?"  said  Miss  Pretty.  "Did  you  notice  the 
wonderful  color  of  her  eyes  ?  " 

It  is  refreshing  to  hear  one  woman  praise  another.  I  looked  down 
approvingly  upon  my  companion,  whereupon  she  looked  up,  and  I 
received  a  distinct  surprise.     Her  eyes  were  most  attractive. 

We  found  the  beautiful  Miss  Pretty  on  the  hotel  veranda,  sur- 
rounded. My  heart  stifled  me  as  she  gave  me  one  of  her  rare  cold 
smiles. 

"It  has  been  a  glorious  day,  and  I  think  we  shall  have  a  cool 
night,"  I  stammered. 

The  beautiful  Miss  Pretty  agreed  with  me.  I  compared  the 
color  of  her  misty  gown  to  the  color  shimmering  in  the  sea  below  us. 
She  said  she  had  always  liked  green.  By  this  time  many  of  the  men 
had  remembered  their  breeding  and  were  talking  to  the  plain  sister. 
She  seemed  to  be  amusing  them.  I  asked  the  beautiful  Miss  Pretty 
if  she  would  walk  with  me  on  the  board-walk. 

"Thank  you,  I  fear  I  must  dress  for  dinner.  Will  you  tell  Mary 
to  come  and  dress,  please?" 

I  walked  back  to  the  plain  Miss  Pretty.  She  was  talking  viva- 
ciously. 

"Oh,  bother  dressing!"  she  said.  "I  came  here  to  have  a  good 
time." 

Miss  Pretty — I  mean  the  plain  Miss  Pretty;  her  sister  did  not 
care  for  sea-bathing — Miss  Pretty  in  a  bathing-suit  was  a  nymph. 
She  had  quite  a  group  about  her  as  I  joined  her  on  the  beach  the 
next  day. 

The  plain  Miss  Pretty  swam  like  a  fish  and  floated  like  a  feather. 
She  raced  some  of  us,  some  she  splashed  with  water,  laughing  like 
a  child.  She  swam  far  out  with  me,  and,  growing  tired,  rested  her 
hand  on  my  shoulder.     She  seemed  to  weigh  nothing  at  all. 

That  night  there  was  another  dance  at  the  Seacrest.  The  beautiful 
Miss  Pretty,  in   black,  was  a   picture   to  stir  the  soul.     I  had  the 


78  WERNER'S  READINGS 

good  fortune  to  secure  three  dances  with  her.  Then  I  sought  her 
sister. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  plain  Miss  Pretty.  "I  haven't  one 
left." 

I  felt  rather  bad-tempered  about  it.  I  enjoyed  her  naive  talk 
about  her  sister. 

"Suppose  we  make  an  engagement  to  walk 'to-morrow  morning?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  can't  go  to-morrow,  I've  promised — ■" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

I  felt  that  the  girl  had  snubbed  me  quite  enough.  I  had  tried  to 
be  nice  to  her  for  her  sister's  sake,  but  I  resolved  to  make  no  more 
self-sacrifices.     I  would  have  done  with  her. 

"  But  the  next  day  I  should  like  so  much  to  go." 

"The  next  day,  then,  I  shall  remember." 

I  left  to  claim  a  dance  with  her  sister.  The  beautiful  Miss  Pretty 
did  not  talk  while  she  danced,  and  I  was  left  to  my  own  reflections 
as  we  glided  through  the  waltz.  I  wondered  if  she  liked  me,  and 
whether  she  would  be  very  much  surprised  if  I  made  her  an  offer  of 
marriage  after  the  dance  finished.  I  had  quite  made  up  my  mind 
to  it  when  the  music  stopped. 

"That  was  perfect!"    I  said  softly  in  her  ear. 

"Charming,  I  thought." 

Somehow  her  calm,  cool  voice  gave  my  ardor  a  check.  After  all, 
a  dance  was  no  place  to  propose  to  a  girl;  and  I  had  known  her  but 
three  days.  Then  a  thought  came  to  me.  I  would  ask  her  sister 
what  she  thought  about  it.  Her  sister  was  nowhere  to  be  found, 
but  I  heard  her  light,  laughing  voice  floating  in  with  the  breeze  from 
the  piazza.  I  have  no  opinion  of  a  girl  who  frequents  dark  corners 
during  the  intervals  of  a  dance.  I  sat  alone  in  the  ballroom  through- 
out the  intermission,  very  much  bored. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  dance  that  I  caught  the  plain 
Miss  Pretty's  eye,  and  saw  her  beckon  me. 

"Mr.  Williams  has  gone  home  ill,"  she  said.  "You  may  have 
this  one  if  you  like.     Do  you  like?" 

Williams  had  been  her  companion  oh  the  piazza. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  79 

"I  like  beyond  anything  in  the  world,"  I  said  as  I  put  my  arm 
about  her. 

She  danced  like  a  little  fairy,  and  kept  up  a  steady  stream  of  non- 
sense as  we  waltzed.  Her  merry  jests,  her  teasings,  her  roguishness 
held  me  during  the  dance  and  after. 

"Have  you  one  more  for  me?"   I  asked  her. 

"Mr.  Williams  had  the  fourteenth,  too,"  she  said,  wrinkling  her 
brows  at  her  card.     "You  may  have  it,  as  he  is  ill,  poor  fellow!" 

"Oh,  don't  give  it  to  me  if  you  are  going  to  pity  him  all  through 
the  dance." 

"Very  well." 

"You  are  going  to  give  it  to  me?" 

"I  told  you  so,  silly." 

I  had  never  been  called  "silly"  before.  After  the  dances  were 
over  which  blocked  the  way  to  mine,  I  carried  her  off  to  the  end  of 
the  piazza.     We  were  alone. 

Her  sister — with  Algy — passed  us,  tall,  willowy,  wonderful. 

"Isn't  Beatrice  lovely  to-night?" 

"She  is  wonderful,"  I  said  seriously.  "I  brought  you  out  here 
to  talk  about  your  sister." 

"Of  course.     They  all  do.     Well — she  is  beautiful,   isn't  she?" 

"  Beautiful,"  I  murmured. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Go  on." 

"Go  on?" 

"About  Beatrice." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  quite  inexcusable  to  propose  to  a  girl 
at  a  dance  after  knowing  her  just  three  days?  I've  been  wondering. 
A  dance  seems  hardly  the  place." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  at  all  the  place.  Isn't  that  the  next  dance  beginning  ? 
I  really  must  go  in." 

I  dislike  to  see  a  girl  so  eager  for  dancing.  It  seems  to  show  that 
tendency  toward  the  frivolous  which  I  have  observed  more  than  once 
in  the  plain  Miss  Pretty.  It  struck  me  that  I  might  offer  a  few  brotherly 
suggestions. 


80  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"There  are  a  number  of  things  I  do  not  approve  of  in  you." 

"Why,  what  are  they?" 

"One  is  your  going  off  alone  with  a  man  to  a  dark  corner  of  the 
piazza." 

I  looked  at  her  sternly,  expecting  her  to  flush.     Instead,  she  rose. 

"  You  are  right,  I'll  go  in." 

I  caught  one  end  of  the  scarf  she  held  and  stopped  her. 

"Of  course,  it  is  all  right  your  being  here  with  me.  I  meant 
Williams." 

"  I  see.  It's  all  right  to  be  here  with  you,  but  all  wrong  with  Mr. 
Williams."     She  sat  down. 

"The  difference  is — er — the  difference  between  Williams  and 
myself  is  that  Williams  may  possibly  be  in  love  with  you,  and  I— er — " 

"And  you  are  not." 

She  smiled  at  me.  We  were  very  near  together.  In  some  un- 
accountable way  I  suddenly  found  myself  holding  the  plain  Miss 
Pretty  in  my  arms. 

"When  will  you  marry  me?"  I  asked  hotly. 

"Please  don't,"  said  Miss  Pretty  disengaging  herself.  "A  dance 
isn't  the  place  to  propose  to  a  girl." 

"A  dance  is  the  best  place  on  earth  for  it!" 

"And  when  you  have  known  a  girl  only  three  days — " 

"It  can't  be  helped.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  minute  I 
saw  you.     That  counts  for  something,  doesn't  it?" 

"When  did  you  first  see  me?" 

"At  the  horse-show,  I  said  then — ask  Algy — I  said  I  was  going 
to  win  you,  that  very  day!" 

"Are'nt  you  getting  rather  mixed?     Wasn't  it  Beatrice?" 

"Beatrice!  Good  heavens,  how  can  you  talk  of  Beatrice  now? 
That's  another  thing  I  disapprove  of  in  you.  Why  should  a  girl  always 
talk  about  her  sister?     When  will  you  marry  me-?" 

I  had  the  plain  Miss  Pretty  in  my  arms  again. 

"There's  the  dance,"  she  said,  freeing  herself,  "and  here  comes 
Mr.  Davidson." 

I  glared  at  Davidson,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  glared  at  me. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  81 

Pacing  the  piazza  after  Miss  Pretty  had  left  me,  I  ran  into  Algy. 

"Mind  where  you're  going,"  he  said  savagely.  "By  George, 
I  wish  I'd  never  let  you  into  this  contest!" 

"  That's  all  right,  old  man.  I  retire  of  my  cwn  free  will.  There  she  is 
now,  sitting  alone  in  the  moonlight.    The  field  is  yours.    Go  in  and  win ! " 

We  looked  where  a  Titian  head  rose  from  an  ivory  neck. 

"  Who  are  you  talking  about  ?  That  isn't  the  one.  It's  her  sister 
— the  plain  Miss  Pretty!" 

"You're  crazy,  man;   it's  Beatrice  you're  in  love  with." 

"Don't  I  know  whom  I'm  in  love  with?"  Algy  almost  shrieked 
in  his  fury. 

I  had  no  patience  with  him.  The  fellow's  fickleness  was  disgusting 
I  turned  and  left  him. 

After  the  dancing  was  finished,  I  captured  the  plain  Miss  Pretty 
and  bore  her  off  to  our  corner  of  the  piazza. 

"Now,  when  will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  can't  marry  you  all." 

"  All  ?     Who  else  wants  you  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"Who  doesn't?" 

"You  needn't  marry  any  one  but  me." 

Miss  Pretty  came  nearer.     She  put  a  timid   hand   on  my  arm. 

"Couldn't  you  marry  Beatrice?"    she  asked  pleadingly. 

"No,  I  couldn't." 

Her  face  fell. 

"That  is  what  they  all  always  say — always!  It  is  just  the  same 
every  summer."     Then  she  sighed.     "I'm  rather  tired." 

I  took  her  in  my  arms.  She  was  so  little  and  soft  and  sweet,  ho'>v 
could  I  help  it  ? 

"Won't  you  marry  me?"     I  pleaded,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  see  about  it,"  she  said,  drawing  away. 

That  was  years  ago,  I  am  still  making  it  the  business  of  my  life 
to  win  the  plain  Miss  Pretty,  who  is  now  Mrs  Arrowborn,  the  widow 
of  a  Chicago  millionaire.  Unfortunately,  some  hundred  others  are 
making  it  their  life-work,  too. 

The  beautiful  Miss  Pretty  is  still  beautiful.  She  is  also  still  Miss  Pretty, 


82  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE    WEEDS   OF   THE   ARMY. 


CAPT.   JACK   CRAWFORD. 


SOME  of  the  papers  tell  us  that  the  boys  of  the  G.  A.  R. 
Never  smelt  powder  in  battle,  nor  went  to  the  front  in  the  war; 
They  brazenly  tell  us  our  roster  bears  only  the  names  of  those 
Who  paused  at  the  roar  of  conflict  and  northward  pointed  their  toes ; 
They  say  that  the  true,  brave  soldiers  have  never  entered  our  ranks, 
That  we  never  were  known  to  muster  but  a  lot  of  political  cranks. 
As  one  of  the  papers  put  it,  we  are  but  the  weeds  of  the  crop, — - 
But  loafers  and  shirkers  and  cowards,  who  never  heard  muskets  pop. 

Pray  who  are  these  traitorous  writers,  who  are  casting  their  venomous 

slime 
O'er  the  men  who  gave  all  to  their  country,  at  that  trying  and  terrible 

time  ? 
They  are  the  poor  cringing  cowards  who  never  dared  go  to  the  front 
And  stand  with  our  brave,  fearless  soldiers,  and  help  bear  the  battle's 

brunt. 
They  clung  to  the  skirts  of  the  women  and  as  soon  as  our  backs  we 

had  turned, 
Our  flag  and  our  cause  and   our  country  the  cowardly  miscreants 

spurned. 
Let  us  pause  on  a  shaded  corner,  and  see  a  procession  pass 
At  a  great  Grand  Army  reunion,  when  the  veterans  form  in  mass. 
Just  note  the  dismembered  bodies,  the  crutches  and  canes  and  the  scars, 
That  mutely  tell  the  sad  story  of  the  bloodiest  of  wars. 
See  the  tattered  flags  they  are  bearing,  all  riddled  with  shot  and  with 

shell. 
The  flags  they  carried  undaunted  right  into  the  gateway  of  hell. 
See  the  bodies  bent  and  disabled,  made  so  in  the  battle's  fierce  blast- 
Are  these  the  weeds  of  the  army  at  whom  these  insults  are  cast? 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  83 

Brave  Garfield,  our  honored  martyr,  wore  the  badge  of  the  boys  in  blue. 

And  Hancock,  the  mighty  soldier,  was  a  comrade,  tried  and  true ; 

And  Logan,  our  own  loved  Logan,  undaunted  in  peace  or  in  war, 

Was  proud  to  be  called  a  member  in  the  ranks  of  the  G.  A.  R. 

And  Grant,  that  intrepid  chieftain,  who  was  honored  in  every  land, 

Stood  up  in  the  ranks  of  veterans,  a  comrade  noble  and  grand. 

Go  search  o'er  the  whole  broad  country  for  the  heroes  who  fought  in 

the  war, 
And  you'll  find  on  each  notable  bosom  the  eagle  and  flag  and  star; 
'Tis  worn  as  a  badge  of  honor,  o'er  hearts  that  were  loyal  and  true, 
And  is  borne  by  the  greatest  soldiers,  who  ever  the  bright  sword  drew. 
Just  glance  o'er  the  mighty  roster,  and  pause  at  each  honored  name 
And  reflect  for  a  passing  moment  o'er  each  hero's  deathless  fame; 
Then  answer  me  this  one  question,  if  you  find  it  is  in  your  power, 
If  those  are  the  weeds  of  the  army,  please  tell  me  where  is  the  flower  ? 


GOLIATH. 


THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH. 


EDWIN  WATSON,  an  old  college  acquaintance  of  mine  with  whom 
by  chance  I  had  recently  become  quite  friendly,  was  in  the 
banking  business:  he  had  been  married  one  or  two  years,  and  was 
living  out  of  town  in  what  he  called  "a  little  box,"  on  the  slope  of 
Blue  Hill.  He  had  once  or  twice  invited  me  to  run  out  to- dine  and 
spend  the  night  with  him,  but  some  engagement  or  other  disability 
had  interfered.  One  evening,  however,  I  accepted  his  invitation  for 
a  certain  Tuesday.  Watson,  who  was  having  a  vacation  at  the  time, 
was  not  to  accompany  me  from  town,  but  was  to  meet  me  with  his 
pony-cart  at  Green  Lodge,  two  or  three  miles  from  "The  Briers," 
the  name  of  his  place. 

"I  shall  be  proud  to  show  you  my  wife,"  he  said,  "and  the  baby — 
and  Goliath." 

"Goliath?" 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"That's  the  dog,"  answered  Watson  with  a  laugh. 

If  Watson  had  mentioned  the  dog  earlier  in  the  conversation,  I 
might  have  shied  at  his  hospitality.  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  do 
not  like  dogs,  and  am  afraid  of  them.  They  sally  forth  from  pictur- 
esque verandas  and  unexpected  hidings,  to  show  their  teeth  as  I  go 
by.  In  a  spot  where  there  is  no  dog,  one  will  germinate,  if  he  happens, 
to  find  out  that  I  am  to  pass  that  way.  Sometimes  they  follow  me 
for  miles.  Strange  dogs  that  wag  their  tails  at  other  persons  growl 
at  me  from  over  fences,  and  across  vacant  lots,  and  at  street  corners. 

" So  you  keep  a  dog?"   I  remarked  carelessly. 

"Yes,"  returned  Watson.  "What  is  a  country-place  without  a 
dog?"  I  said  to  myself,  "I  know  what  a  country-place  is  with  a  dog; 
it's  a  place  I  should  prefer  to  avoid." 

But  as  I  had  accepted  the  invitation,  and  as  Watson  was  to  pick 
meup  at  Green  Lodge  station,  and,  presumably,  see  me  safe  into 
the  house,  I  said  no  more. 

The  Tuesday  on  which  I  was  to  pass  the  night  with  Watson  was  a 
day  simply  packed  with  evil  omens.  I  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  for 
rural  pleasures  when  I  finally  seated  myself  in  the  six-o'clock  train 
with  my  gripsack  beside  me. 

The  run  from  town  to  Green  Lodge  is  about  twenty-five  minutes, 
and  the  last  stoppage  before  reaching  that  station  is  Readville.  We 
were  possibly  half-way  between  these  two  points  when  the  train 
slackened  and  came  to  a  dead  halt  amid  some  ragged  woodland. 
Presently  a  brakeman,  with  a  small  red  flag  in  his  hand,  stationed 
himself  some  two  hundred  yards  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  in  order  to 
prevent  the  evening  express  from  telescoping  us.  An  overturned 
gravel-car  lay  across  the  track  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond. 

It  was  fully  an  hour  before  the  obstruction  was  removed.  I  smiled 
bitterly  thinking  of  Watson  and  his  dinner. 

The  station  at  Green  Lodge  consists  of  a  low  platform  on  which 
is  a  shed  covered  on  three  sides  with  unpainted  deal  boards  hacked 
nearly  to  pieces  by  tramps.  I  looked  around  for  Watson  and  the 
pony-cart.  What  had  occurred  was  obvious.  He  had  waited  an  hour 
for  me,  and  then  driven  home  with  the  conviction  that  the  train  must 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO,  37.  85 

have  passed  before  he  got  there,  and  that  I,  for  some  reason,  had  failed 
to  come  on  it. 

A  walk  of  three  miles  was  not  an  inspiriting  prospect,  and  would 
not  have  been  even  if  I  had  had  some  slight  idea  of  where  "  The  Briers" 
was,  or  where  I  was  myself.  Just  then  my  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a 
cart-wheel  grating  on  an  unoiled  axle.  It  was  a  withered  farmer  in 
a  rickety  open  wagon  slowly  approaching  the  railway-track,  and  going 
toward  the  hills — my  own  intended  destination. 

I  stopped  the  man  and  explained  my  dilemma.  He  was  willing 
to  give  me  a  lift  to  the  end  of  the  Green  Lodge  road.  There  I  could 
take  the  old  turnpike.  I  climbed  up  beside  him  with  alacrity.  It 
was  a  balmy  evening,  the  air  was  charged  with  sweet  wood  scents,  and, 
after  the  frets  of  the  day,  it  was  soothing  to  be  drawn  at  a  snail's  pace 
through  the  fragrance  and  stillness  of  that  fern-fringed  road ;  suddenly 
I  thought  of  Goliath.  At  that  moment  Goliath  was  probably  prowling 
about  Watson's  front  yard  seeking  whom  he  might  devour;  and  I 
was  that  predestined  nourishment.  I  knew  what  sort  of  a  dog  Watson 
was  likely  to  keep.  There  was  a  tough  streak  in  Watson  himself 
a  kind  of  thoroughbred  obstinacy.  An  animal  with  a  tenacious 
grip,  and  on  the  verge  of  hydrophobia,  was  what  would  naturally 
commend  itself  to  his  liking. 

He  had  specified  Goliath,  but  maybe  he  had  half  a  dozen  other 
dragons  to  guard  his  hillside  Hesperides.  I  wished  myself  safely 
back  among  the  crowded  streets  and  electric  lights  of  the  city. 

When  we  reached  the  junction  of  the  Green  Lodge  road  and  the 
turnpike,  I  felt  that  I  was  parting  from  the  only  friend  I  had  in  the 
world.  I  hinted  that  it  would  be  much  to  his  pecuniary  advantage 
if  he  were  willing  to  go  so  far  out  of  his  course  as  the  doorstep  of  Mr. 
Watson's;  but  he  made  no  answer  and  rattled  off  into  space. 

Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  later  I  stood  in  front  of  what  I  knew 
at  a  glance  to  be  "The  Briers,"  for  Watson  had  described  it  to  me. 

I  cautiously  approached  the  paling,  and  looked  over  into  the  facade 
of  Watson's  villa,  and  then  I  contemplated  the  somber  and  unexplored 
tract  of  land  which  I  must  needs  traverse  in  order  to  reach  the  door- 
step.    How  still  it  was!     The  very  stillness  had  a  sort  of  menace  in 


86  WERNER'S  READINGS 

it.  There  certainly  was  an  air  of  latent  dog  about  the  place,  though 
as  yet  no  dog  had  developed. 

However,  unless  I  desired  to  rouse  the  inmates  from  their  beds, 
I  saw  that  I  ought  to  announce  myself  without  much  further  delay. 

I  softly  opened  the  gate,  which,  having  a  heavy  ball-and-chain 
attachment  outside,  immediately  slipped  from  my  hand  and  slammed 
to  with  a  bang  as  I  stepped  within.  I  was  not  surprised,  but  I  was 
paralyzed,  all  the  same,  at  instantly  hearing  the  familiar  sound  of*  a 
watch-dog  suddenly  rushing  from  his  kennel. 

The  next  sound  I  heard  was  the  scramble  of  the  animal's  forepaws 
as  he  landed  on  the  graveled  pathway.  There  he  hesitated  irresolute, 
as  if  he  were  making  up  his  diabolical  mind  which  path  he  would 
take.  He  neither  growled  nor  barked  in  the  interim,  being  evidently 
one  of  those  wide-mouthed,  reticent  brutes  that  mean  business  and 
indulge  in  no  vain  flourish.  I  held  my  breath  and  waited.  Presently 
I  heard  him  stealthily  approaching  me  on  the  left.  I  at  once  hastened 
up  the  right-hand  path,  having  tossed  my  gripsack  in  his  direction 
with  the  hope  that  while  he  was  tearing  it  to  pieces,  I  might  possibly 
be  able  to  reach  the  piazza,  and  ring  the  bell.  My  ruse  failed,  how- 
ever, the  dog  continued  his  systematic  approach  and  I  was  obliged 
to  hurry  past  the  piazza  steps. 

A  few  seconds  brought  me  back  to  the  point  of  my  departure.  I 
had  forgotten  which  way  the  gate  swung;  besides,  as  I  had  no  stop- 
over  ticket,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  continue  on  my  circular 
journey.  So  far  as  I  could  judge,  the  dog  was  now  about  three  yards  in 
my  rear;  I  was  unable  to  see  him,  but  I  could  plainly  detect  his  quick 
respiration,  and  his  deliberate  footfalls  on  the  gravel. 

I  wondered  why  he  did  not  spring  upon  me  at  once;  but  he  knew 
he  had  his  prey,  he  knew  I  was  afraid  of  him,  and  he  was  playing  with 
me  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse. 

By  this  time  my  brisk  trot  had  turned  into  a  run,  and  I  was  spin- 
ning around  the  circle  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour,  with  the  dog 
at  my  heels.  Now  I  shot  by  the  piazza,  and  now  past  the  gate,  until 
presently  I  ceased  to  know  which  was  the  gate  and  which  the  piazza. 
I  believe  that  I  shouted  ': Watson!"  once  or  twice,  no  doubt  at  the 
wrong  place,  but  I  do  not  remember.     At  all  events,  I  failed  to  make 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  87 

myself  heard.  My  brain  was  in  such  confusion  that  at  intervals  I 
could  not  for  the  soul  of  me  tell  whether  I  was  chasing  the  dog  or 
the  dog  was  chasing  me. 

Now  I  almost  felt  his  nose  at  my  heel,  and  now  I  seemed  upon  the 
point  of  trampling  him  underfoot. 

In  spite  of  my  terror,  an  ironical  smile  crept  to  my  lips  as  I  re- 
flected that  I  might,  perhaps,  keep  this  thing  up  until  sunrise,  unless 
a  midnight  meal  was  one  of  the  dog's  regular  habits. 

A  prolonged  angry  snarl,  now  and  then,  admonished  me  that 
his  patience  was  about  exhausted. 

I  had  accomplished  the  circuit  of  the  yard,  for  the  twentieth  time, 
when  the  front  door  of  the  villa  was  opened  with  a  jerk,  and  Watson, 
closely  followed  by  the  pretty  housemaid,  stepped  out  upon  the  piazza. 

"Good  Heavens!  Willis,  is  this  you?  where  did  you  tumble  from? 
How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Six-o'clock  train — Green  Lodge — white  horse — old  man — I — " 
Suddenly  the  pretty  housemaid  descended  the  steps  and  picked  up 
from  the  graveled  path  a  little  panting,  tremulous  wad  of  something, — 
not  more  than  two  handfuls  at  most, — which  she  folded  tenderly  to 
her  bosom.     "What's  that?"   I  asked. 

"That's  Goliath,"  said  Watson. 


CRISS-CROSS. 


IF  you  stick  a  stick  across  a  stick 
Or  stick  a  cross  across  a  stick 
Or  cross  a  stick  across  a  stick 
Or  stick  a  cross  across  a  cross 
Or  cross  a  cross  across  a  stick 
Or  cross  a  cross  across  a  cross 
Or  stick  a  cross  stick  across  a  stick 
Or  stick  a  crossed  stick  across  a  crossed  stick 
Or  cross  a  crossed  stick  across  a  cross 
Or  cross  a  crossed  stick  across  a  stick 
Or  cross  a  crossed  stick  across  a  crossed  stick, 
Would  that  he  an  acrostic  ? 


88  WERNER'S  READINGS 


A   TALE    OF   TWO    CHAIRS. 


I. 

ELIJAH  on  his  Lizzie  calls 
When  chores  are  done  and  ev'ning  falls. 
Elijah's  bashful,  Lizzie's  shy, 
But  then    her  parents  sit  close  by. 
"Good  night,  Elijah;  Liz,  good  night," 
And  pa  and  ma  trudge  off  to  bed  and  leave  to  bliss 
Their  daughter  and  her  beau  with  chairs  like  this: 

|  [First  finger  [First  finger 

oj  left  hand.]  of  right  hand. 

II. 
Elijah  "  'lows  this  weath'r'll  do 
For  hayin';  "   Liz  thinks  so,  too. 
"Went  coonin'  'long  with  John  last  night." 
"  Get  any  coons  ?"   "  No,  moon  warn't  bright." 
And  so  they  court.     Naught  goes  amiss, 
Till  Lije  and  Liz  have  chairs  like  this: 


III. 

With  Sparta  will  to  do  or  die, 

Elijah  seems  to  grow  less  shy, 

And  chairs  become  bewitched,  I  wis: 

They  hitch  and  hitch,  until  they  look  like  this: 


IV. 

"Liz,  do  you  love  me?"     "O   Lije!  I  do."     They  kiss, 
Then  round  gets  caught  in  round,  and  chairs  resemble  this: 

X 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  89 

In  Stanza  I.,  last  line,  raise  arms  at  side,  elbows  bent  and  hold 
ringers  parallel  with  body. 

In  Stanza  II.,  first  line,  move  finger  of  left  hand  slowly  toward 
finger  of  right  hand. 

In  second  line  of  Stanza  II.,  move  finger  of  right  hand  near  left. 
Continue  this  during  conversation. 

In  Stanza  III.,  fourth  line,  jerk  fingers  toward  each  other. 

In  Stanza  IV.,  on  "Liz,  do  you  love  me,"  bend  finger  of  left  hand 
over  finger  of  right  hand  On  "O  Lije!  I  do  "  bend  right  hand  over 
left  hand,  finally  holding  fingers  crossed. 


CAPRICE   AT   HOME. 


NO,  I  will  not  say  good-by — ■ 
Not  good-by,  nor  anything. 
He  is  gone  ...  I  wonder  why 
Lilacs  are  not  sweet  this  spring  ? — 
How  that  tiresome  bird  will  sing' 

I  might  follow  him  and  say 

Just  that  he  forgot  to  kiss 
Baby,  when  he  went  away. 

Everything  I  want  I  miss. 

Oh,  a  precious  world  is  this! 

What  if  night  came  and  not  he  ? 

Something  might  mislead  his  feet. 
Does  the  moon  rise  late?     Ah,  me! 

There  are  things  that  he  might  meet. 

Now  the  rain  begins  to  beat : 

So  it  will  be  dark.     The  bell  ? 
Someone  someone  loves  is  dead. 

Were  it  he — I  cannot  tell 
Half  the  fretful  words  I  said. 
Half  the  fretful  tears  I  shed. 


90  WERNER'S  READINGS 

\ 

Dead  ?     And  but  to  think  of  death; 

Men  might  bring  him  through  the  gate : 
Lips  that  have  not  any  breath, 
Eyes  that  stare — and  I  must  wait! 
Is  it  time  or  is  it  late  ? 

I  was  wrong,  and  wrong,  and  wrong , 
I  will  tell  him,  oh,  be  sure! 

If  the  heavens  are  builded  strong, 
Love  shall  therein  be  secure ; 
Love  like  mine  shall  there  endure. 

Listen,  listen — that  is  he! 

I'll  not  speak  to  him,  I  say. 
If  he  choose  to  say  to  me, 

"I  was  all  to  blame  to-day; 

Sweet,  forgive  me,"  why — I  may! 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING. 


RUTH   McENERY   STUART 


cc  »rp AIN'  n0  use  ter  trv  ter  hol'er.    (She^  des   gwine  f'om  fits  ter 
i-       convulsions,  an'  f'om  convulsions  back  inter  fits!" 
Jake  Johnson  was  dead,  and  Lize  Ann  Johnson  again  a  widow. 
The  churchfolk  were  watching  her  with  keen  interest;  and,  indeed, 
so  were  the  worldlings,  for  this  was  Lize  i\nn's  third  widowhood  within 
the  space  of  five  years.     As  girl  first,  and  twice  as  widow,  she  had  been 
rather  a  notorious  figure  in  colored   circles.     Three  times  she  had 
voluntarily  married  into  quiet  life,  but  during  the  intervals  she  had 
played  promiscuous  havoc  with  the  felicity  of  her  neighbors. 

During  both  her  previous  widowhoods  she  had  danced  longer, 
laughed  louder,  dressed  more  effectively  than  all  the  women  on  the 
three  plantations  put  together,  and  when  she  had  passed  down  the 
road  on  Sunday  evenings,  and  had  chosen  to  peep  over  her  shoulders 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  31 

with  dreamy  half-closed  eyes  at  some  special  man  whom  it  pleased 
her  mood  to  ensnare,  he  had  not  more  been  able  to  help  following 
her  than  he  had  been  able  to  help  lying  to  his  wife  or  sweetheart  about 
it  afterward. 

But  for  the  first  few  months  of  her  recovered  widowhood  Lize  Ann 
was  conspicuous  by  her  absence  from  congregations  of  all  sorts. 

When  for  five  long  months  the  widow  had  maintained  her  position 
as  a  heart-broken  recluse,  the  people  began  to  regard  her  with  a  degree 
of  genuine  respect;  and  when  one  Sunday  morning  the  gathering 
congregation  discovered  her  sitting  in  the  church,  a  solitary  figure 
in  black,  on  the  very  last  of  the  Amen  pews  in  the  corner,  they  were 
moved  to  sympathy. 

As  she  was  first  at  service  to-day,  she  was  last  to  depart,  and  not 
a  sister  in  church  had  the  temerity  to  join  her  as  she  walked  home. 
From  this  time  forward  the  little  mourning  figure  was  at  every  meeting, 
and  when  the  minister  asked  such  as  desired  salvation  to  remain  to  be 
prayed  for,  she  kneeled  and  stayed. 

But  the  truth  was,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Langford,  a  tall,  handsome  bachelor 
of  thirty-three  or  thereabouts,  was  regarded  as  the  best  catch  in  the 
parish.  When  he  conducted  the  meetings  there  were  always  so  many 
boisterous  births  into  the  kingdom  that  he  had  not  the  time  to  seek 
out  the  silent  mourners,  and  so  had  not  yet  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  widow.  Finally,  however,  one  Sunday  night  just  as  he  passed 
her,  Lize  Ann  heaved  one  of  her  very  best  moans. 

He  was  on  his  knees  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"Ain't  you  foun'  peace  yit,  Sis'  Johnsing?" 

The  widow  only  groaned. 

"Can't  you  speak  to  yo'  preacher,  Sis'  Johnsing?  He  crave  in 
'is  heart  ter  he'p  you." 

"I  can't  talk  heah,  Brer  Langford;  my  heart's  clean  broke.  I 
goes  back  ter  my  little  dark  cabin  mo'  sinfuler'n  I  was  befo'.  Des  de 
we'y  glimpse  of  dat  empty  cabin  seems  lak  hit  turn  my  heart  ter  stone." 

"Don't  talk  dat-a-way,  don't  talk  dat-a-way.  I'll  call  an'  see  you 
and  talk  an'  pray  wid  yon  in  yo'  cabin  whensomever  you  say  de  word. 
When  shill  I  come  ter  you  ? " 


W  WERNERS  READINGS 

"*'  De  mos'  lonesome's  time,  Brer  Langford,  an'  de  time  what  harden 
my  heart  de  mos',  is  in  de  dark  bewilderin'  night-times  when  I  fust 
goes  home.  But,  co'se,  I  don't  expec'  no  yo'ng  man  lak  you  ter  tek 
de  trouble  ter  turn  out'n  yo'  path  fur  sech  as  me." 

"I  will  do  hit,  Sis  Johnsing,  an'  it  will  be  an  act  o'  pleasurable 
Christianity." 

Lize  Ann  had  nearly  reached  her  cabin  when  the  reverend  brother 
stepping  forward,  gallantly  placed  his  hand  beneath  her  elbow,  and 
aided  her  to  mount  the  one  low  step  which  led  to  her  door. 

As  they  entered  the  room  she  threw  a  split  pine  upon  the  coals 
and  as  the  young  man  locked  about  the  apartment  he  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes.  The  hearth,  newly  reddened,  fairly  glowed  with 
warm  color,  and  the  gleaming  white  pine  floor  seemed  fresh  from  the 
carpenter's  plane.  Dainty  white  muslin  curtains  hung  before  the 
little  square  windows,  and  from  the  shelves  a  dazzling  row  of  tins 
reflected  the  blazing  fire. 

The  widow  leaned  forward,  stirring  the  fire;  and  when  his  eyes 
fell  upon  her  his  astonishment  confirmed  his  speechlessness.  She 
had  removed  her  black  bonnet,  and  the  heavy  shawl,  which  had  en- 
veloped her  figure,  had  fallen  behind  her  into  her  chair.  What  he 
saw  was  a  round,  trim,  neatly  clad,  youngish  woman,  whose  face, 
illumined  by  the  flickering  fire,  was  positively  charming  in  its  piquant 
assertion  of  grief.  Smiling  through  her  sadness,  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  turned  to  her  guest: 

"Lor'  bless  my  soul,  ef  I  ain't  raked  out  a  sweet  'tater  out'n  deze 
coals!  I's  feerd  you'll  be  clair  disgusted  at  sech  onmannerly  doin's, 
Brer  Langford ;  I  don't  reck'n  you'd  even  ter  say  look  at  a  roas'  'tater, 
would  you,  Brer  Langford?" 

The  person  addressed  was  rubbing  his  hands  together  and  chuckling. 
"Ef  yer  tecks  my  jedgmint,  Sis'  Johnsing,  on  de  pertater  question, 
roas'n'  is  de  onies'  way  to  cook  'em." 

"Ef  you  will  set  down  an'  eat  a  roas'  'tater  in  my  miser'ble  little 
cabin,  Brer  Langford,  I  'clare  fo'  gracious  hit'll  raise  my  sperits  mightily. 
Gord  knows  I  wishes  I  had  some'h'n  good  to  offer  you,  a-comin'  in 
out'n  de  col';   but  ef  you'll  please,  sir,  have  de  mannerliness  ter  hoi' 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  93 

de  candle,  I'll  empty  my  oP  cupboard  clean  inside  out'n  but  I'll  find 
you  some'h'n  nother  to  spressify  your  welcome." 

Langford  rose,  and  as  he  held  the  light  to  the  open  safe,  his  eyes 
fairly  glowed.  He  was  hungry,  and  the  snowy  shelves  were  covered 
with  open  vessels  of  tempting  food. 

"I  'clare  Sis'  Johnsing, — I  'clarel"  were  the  only  words  that  the 
man  of  eloquent  speech  found. 

"  Dis  heah  cupboard  mecks  me  shame,  Brer  Langford.  Dey  ain't 
a  thing  fer  any  sech  as  you  in  it.  Won't  you  please,  sir,  teck  de  candle 
an'  fetch  a  bottle  of  milk  dats  a-settin'  outside  de  right-hand  winder 
in  my  room?" 

He  had  returned  with  the  bottle,  when  the  disconsolate  widow 
actually  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Lor'  save  my  soul!  ef  he  ain't  gone  an'  fetched  a  bottle  o'  beer! 
You  is  a  caution,  Brer  Langford!  Does  yer  think  fur  a  perfesser  ter 
teck  a  little  beer  er  wine  when  dey  feels  a  faintness  is  a  fatal  sin,  Brer 
Langford?" 

"Why,  no,  Sis'  Johnsing!  Succumstances  alter  cases,  an'  hits  de 
succumstances  0'  drinkin'  what  mecks  de  altercations;  an'  de  way  I 
looks  at  it,  a  Christian  man  is  de  onies'  pusson  who  oughter  dare  ter 
trus'  'isse'f  wid  de  wine-cup,  'caze  a  sinner  don't  know  when  ter  stop." 

"Dat  sound  mighty  reason'ble,  Brer  Langford.  An'  sence  you 
fetched  de  beer,  now  you  'bleege  ter  drink  it.  But  please,  sir,  go  lak 
a  good  man  an'  bring  my  milk,  on  'tother  side  in  de  winder." 

The  milk  was  brought  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Langford  was  soon 
smacking  his  lips  over  the  best  supper  it  had  been  his  ministerial  good 
fortune  to  enjoy  for  many  a  day. 

As  the  widow  raked  a  second  potato  from  the  fire,  she  remarked 
in  a  tone  of  inimitable  pathos: 

"  Seem  lak  I  can't  git  usen  ter  cookin'  fur  one.  Seein'  as  you  relish 
de  beer,  Brer  Langford,  I's  proud  you  made  de  mistake  an'  fetched  it. 
Gord  knows  somebody  better  drink  it!  I  got  a  whole  passel  o'  bottles 
in  my  trunk." 

It  was  an  hour  past  midnight  when  finally  the  widow  let  her  guest 
out  the  back  door.     As  she  held  his  hand  in  parting,  she  said : 


94  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Gord  will  bless  you  fur  dis  night,  Brer  Langford,  fur  you  is  truly 
sacerficed  you'se'f  fur  a  po'  sinner." 

Langford  returned  the  pressure  of  her  hand  and  even  shook  it 
heartily  during  his  parting  speech: 

"Good-night,  my  dear  sister,  an'  Gord  bless  you!" 

With  this  beautiful  admonition  the  Rev.  Mr.  Langford  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.     He  never  felt  better  in  his  life. 

The  widow  watched  his  retreating  figure  until  she  saw  one  dark 
leg  rise  over  the  rail  as  he  scaled  the  garden-fence;  then  coming  in, 
she  hooked  the  door,  and  throwing  herself  on  the  floor,  rolled  over 
and  over,  laughing  until  she  cried,  verily.  "Stan'  back,  gals,  stan' 
back!"  she  exclaimed,  rising,  "Stan'  back,  I  say!  A  widder  don' 
headed  you  off  wid  a  cook-pot!  I  'clare  fo'  gracious,  I  is  a  devil! 
Po'  Alick — an'  po'  Steve — an'  po'  Jake!  But  Brer  Langford  gwine 
be  de  stylishes'  one  o'  de  lot.  I  mus'  go  buy  some  mo'  beer.  Better 
git  two  bottles.  He  mought  ax  fo'  mo'  bein'  as  I  got  a  trunkful.  Well, 
Langford,  honey,  good-night  fur  to-night!  But  prepare  yo'ng  man, 
prepare!" 

During  the  next  two  months  the  Rev.  Langford  never  failed  to 
stop,  after  evening  meeting,  to  look  after  the  spiritual  condition  of 
the  "Widder  Johnsing,"  while  she  saw  to  it  that  without  apparent 
forethought  her  little  cupboard  should  always  supply  a  material  enter- 
tainment, full,  savory,  and  varied. 

Langford  had  heard  things  about  this  woman  in  days  gone  by 
but  now  he  was  pleased  to  realize  that  they  had  all  been  malicious 
inventions  prompted  by  jealousy. 

The  dozen  bottles  of  beer  had  been  followed  by  a  second  and  these 
again  by  a  half  dozen.  At  last  there  were  but  two  bottles  left.  It  was 
Sunday  night  again. 

The  widow  had  not  gone  to  church;  and,  as  it  was  near  the  hour 
for  dismissal,  she  was  a  trifle  nervous. 

Finally  she  detected  the  minister's  familiar  step. 

"Lif  up  de  latch  an'  walk  in,  Brer  Wolf.  Heah,  teck  de  shovel, 
an'  rake  out  a  handful  o'  coals  please  sir,  an'  I'll  set  dis  pan  o'  rolls 
ter  bake.     Dat's  hit.     Now  kiver  de  lid  wid  live  coals  an'  ashes.     Dat's 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  95 

a  man!  Now  time  you  rastle  wid  de  jints  o'  dis  roas'  guinea-hen,  an' 
teck  de  cork-screw  an'  perscribe  fur  dis  beer  bottle,  de  rolls'U  be 
a-singin'.     Now  is  de  accepted  time." 

It  was  no  wonder  the  young  man  thought  her  charming. 

But  all  things  earthly  have  an  end,  and  so  by-and-by  it  was  all  over. 

"Well,  Sis'  Johnsing,  hit's  a-gettin'  on  time  fur  me  to  be  movin'." 

"  Yas,  I  knows  it  is,  Brer  Langford,  an'  dat  ain't  de  wust  of  it." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Sis'  Johnsing?" 

"Brer  Langford,  I — I — been  thinkin'  'bout  you  all  day  an'— 
an' — ter  come  right  down  ter  de  p'int,  I — I — I  feerd  I  done  put  off 
what  I  oughter  said  ter  you  till  look  lak  hit'll  mos'  brek  my  heart  ter 
say  it.     You — you — you  mus'n't  come  heah  no  mo',  Brer  Langford." 

>'Who — me?  Wh — wh — what  is  I  done,  Sis'  Johnsing?" 
V  "You  ain't  done  nothin',  my  dear  frien'.  But — don'  you  see  for 
yo'se'f  how  de  succumstances  stan'  ?  You  is  a  yo'ng  man,  li'ble  to 
fall  in  love  wid  any  lakly  young  gal  any  day,  an'  ter  git  married,  an', 
of  co'se,  dat's  right;  but  don't  you  see  dat  ef  a  po'  lonesome  'ooman 
lak  me  put  too  trfuch  'pendence  orn  a  yo'ng  man  lak  you  is,  de  time 
gwine  come  when  he  gwine  git  tired  a-walkin'  all  de  way  f'om  chu'ch 
des  fer  charity  ter  comfort  a  lonely  sinner  lak  I  is;  an' — an'  I  made 
up  my  mind  dat  I  gwine  scuse  you  f'om  dis  task  while  I  kin  stan'  it." 

"You— you — you — you  talkin'  'bout  you  kin  stan'  it,  Sis'  John- 
sing, an' — an'  seem  lak  you's  forgittin'  all  'bout  me.  I — I  knows 
I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  no-count  yo'ng  striplin',  an'  you  is  a  mannerly 
lady  o'  speunce,  but  hit  do  seem  lak  fo'  you'd  sen'  me  away,  des  lak 
ter  say  a  yaller  dorg,  you'd  ax  me  could  /  stan'  hit;  an' — an'  tell 
de  truf,  I  can't  stan'  it,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  stan'  it." 

"  Brer  Langford — " 

"Don't  you  say  Brer  Langford  to  me  no  mo',  ef  you  please,  ma'am; 
an' — an'  I  ain't  gwine  call  you  Sis'  Johnsing  no  mo'  nother.  You  is 
jest  so  far  as  you  consents,  hencefo'th  an'  fo'ever  mo',  in  season  an' 
out'n  season — des  my  Lize  Ann.  I  don'  tooken  you  fo'  my  sweetness 
'fo'  ter-night,  Lize  Ann,  my  honey." 

Before  he  left  her  the  widow  had  consented  that  he  should  come 

to  her  on  the  following  Sunday  with  the  marriage  license  in  his  pocket. 

Lize  Ann  arrived  late  at  service  on  the  following  Sunday  evening. 


96  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Her  name  had  just  been  announced  as  a  happy  convert;  and,  when 
she  stepped  demurely  up  the  aisle,  the  congregation  was  eager  to 
welcome  her  into  the  fold. 

When,  however,  it  was  announced  that  this  identical  convert,  Mrs. 
Eliza  Ann  Johnsing,  was  then  and  there  to  be  joined  in  the  holy  state 
of  matrimony  to  the  Reverend  Julius  Ca?sar  Langfcrd,  these  same 
blessed  damosels  actually  did  turn  their  backs  and  refused  to  speak 
to  her. 

Though  no  guests  were  bidden  to  share  it,  the  wedding-supper 
in  the  little  cabin  that  night  was  no  mean  affair;  and  when  Langford, 
with  a  chuckling,  half -embarrassed,  new-proprietary  air,  drew  the 
cork  from  the  beer  bottle  beside  his  plate,  Lize  Ann  said : 

"Hit  do  me  good  ter  see  how  you  relishes  dat  beer." 

But  she  did  not  mention  that  it  was  the  last  bottle. 


A   FALLEN   STAR. 


ALBERT   CHEVALIER. 


THIRTY  years  ago  I  was  a  fav'rite  at  the  "Vic." 
A  finished  actor,  not  a  cuff  and  collar  shooting  stick. 
I  roused  the  house  to  laughter,  or  called  forth  the  silent  tear, 
And  made  enthusiastic  gods  vociferously  cheer. 
Those  were  the  days,  the  palmy  days  of  Histrionic  Art; 
Without  a  moment's  notice  I'd  go  on  for  any  part. 
I  do  not  wish  to  gas,  I  merely  state  in  self-defence, 
The  denizens  of  New  Cut  thought  my  Hamlet  was  immense. 
Thirty  years  ago!     I  can  hear  them  shout  " Bravo!" 
When  after  fighting  armies  I  could  never  show  a  scar. 
That  time,  alas !  is  gone,  and  the  light  that  erstwhile  shone 
Was  the  light  of  a  falling  star. 

From  patrons  of  the  circle,  too,  I  had  my  meed  of  praise. 
The  ladies  all  admired  me  in  those  happy,  halcyon  days. 
My  charm  of  manner,  easy  grace,  and  courtly  old-world  air, 
Heroic  bursts  of  eloquence,  or  villain's  dark  despair. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  V 

I  thrilled  my  audience,  thrilled  'em  as  they  never  had  been  thrilh" 
And  filled  the  theater  nightly  as  it  never  had  been  filled ! 

Right  through  the  mighty  gamut  of  emotions  I  could  range, 
From  classic  Julius  Ca:sar  to  the  "Idiot  of  the  Grange." 
Thirty  years  ago!     I  was  someone  in  the  show, 
And  now  I  pass  unrecognized  in  crowded  street  or  bar. 
The  firmanent  of  fame  holds  no  record  of  my  name, 
The  name  of  a  fallen  star! 

The  dramas  that  I  played  in  were  not  all  upon  the  stage, 
Nor  did  I  in  an  hour  become  the  petted  of  the  age. 
Oft  in  my  youthful  days  I've  sung  "Hot  Codlins"  as  the  clown, 
And  turned  my  face  away  to  hide  the  tear-drops  rolling  down. 
And  when  the  pit  and  gallery  saw  I'd  wiped  the  paint  away; 
They  shouted:  "Go  it,  Joey!"   " Ain't 'e  funny ?  Hip  hoo:  : 
My  triumphs  and  my  failures,  my  rise,  and  then  my  fa!1 
They've  rung  the  bell,  the  curtain's  down,  I'm  waiting  ic     '■  ,     •-  • 
Bills — not  those  I  owe — but  old  play -bills  of  the  show, 
My  name  as  Hamlet,  Lear,  Virginius,  Shy  lock,  Ingomar! 
The  laurel  on  my  brow — a  favorite — and  now 
Forgotten!  A  fallen  star. 


THE   LID    OF   THE    GRAVE. 

EMERSON   HOUGH. 


IN  a  little  room  of  a  poor  hotel  situated  on  a  back  street  of  the  city 
of  New  Orleans  a  man  bent  over  an  old  trunk  which  had  that 
day  been  unearthed  from  a  long-time  hiding-place.  It  was  like  open- 
ing a  grave  now  to  raise  its  cover.  The  man  almost  shuddered  as  he 
bent  over  and  looked  in,  curious  as  though  these  things  had  never 
before  met  his  gaze.  There  was  a  dull  odor  of  dead  flowers  long  boxed 
up.  A  faint  rustling  as  of  intangible  things  became  half  audible,  as 
though  spirits  passed  out  at  this  contact  with  the  outer  air. 

"Twelve  years  ago — and  this  is  the  sort  of  luggage  I  carried  then. 
"What   taste!     What  a  foolish  boy!      Heavens!    it's  strange.    There 


98  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ought  to  be  a  picture  or  so  near  the  top."  He  touched  the  tray,  and 
the  dead  flowers  and  dry  papers  rustled  again  until  he  started  back. 
His  face,  tired,  dissipated,  deeply  lined,  went  all  the  paler,  but  presently 
he  delved  in  again. 

"Pictures  of  myself,  eh?  the  first  thing.  I  was  always  first  thing 
to  myself.  Nice,  clean  boy,  wasn't  I?  Wouldn't  have  known  it  was 
myself.  Might  have  been  a  parson,  almost.  Here's  another.  Militia 
uniform,  all  that.  Might  have  been  a  major,  almost.  Uh-hum! 
High-school  diploma  here — very  important.  Eighteen — great  Heaven, 
was  it  so  long  ago  as  that?  University  diploma — Latin.  Can't  read 
it    now.     Might    have  been    a    professor,   mightn't  I?     Diploma  of 

law  school;    also  Latin.     Certificate  of  admission  to  the  bar  of -. 

Might  have  been  a  lawyer.  Might  have  been  a  judge,  mightn't  I? 
Might  have  a  home  now;  white,  green  blinds,  brick  walk  up  to  the 
door,  paling  fence — that  kind  of  thing.  Might  have  had  a  home — 
wife  and  babies — eh!  Baby?  Children?  What?  Well,  I  couldn't 
call  this  much  of  a  home,  could  I,  now?" 

He  unfolded  some  old  newspapers  and  periodicals  of  a  departed 
period,  bearing  proof  of  certain  of  his  own  handicraft. 

"Might  have  been  a  writer — poet— that  sort  of  thing!  Not  so 
bad.  Not  so  bad.  I  couldn't  do  as  well  to-day,  I'm  afraid.  Seem 
to  have  lost  it — let  go  somewhere.  I  never  could  depend  on  myself — 
never  could  depend- — ah,  what's  this?  Yes,  here  are  the  ladies,  God 
bless  them — la — ladies — God  bless  'em!" 

The  lower  tray  was  filled  with  pictures  of  girls  or  women  of  all 
types,  some  of  them  beautiful,  some  of  them  coarse,  most  of  them 
attractive  from  a  certain  point  of  view. 

"  What  a  lot !  How  did  I  do  it  ?  By  asking,  I  reckon.  Six  of  one — 
six  of  another.  Women  and  men  alike,  eh?  Well,  I  don't  know. 
Ask  'em,  you  win.     Or,  don't  ask  'em,  you  win." 

His  hand  fell  upon  the  frame  of  a  little  mirror  laid  away  in  the 
old  trunk.     He  picked  it  up  and  gazed  steadily  at  what  it  revealed. 

"Changed,  changed  a  lot.  Must  have  gone  a  pace,  eh?  Lawyer. 
Judge.  Writer-man.  Poet.  I  thought  these  beat  all  of  that," — 
and  he  looked  down  again  at  the  smiling  faces.  He  picked  them  up 
one  at  a  time  and  laid  them  on  the  bed  beside  him. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  99 

"Alice,  Nora,  Clara,  Kate,  Margaret — I'll  guess  at  the  names, 
and  guess  at  some  of  the  faces  now.  It's  the  same,  all  alike,  the  hunt- 
ing of  love — the  hunting — the  hunt — ing — of — love!  Great  thing. 
But,  of  course,  we  never  do  find  it,  do  we?     Ladies,  good  night." 

He  bowed  ironically ;  yet  his  face  was  more  uneasy  now  than  wholly 
mocking.  He  looked  once  more  at  the  trunk-tray,  and  found  what 
he  apparently  half-feared  to  see.  "Madam!"  he  whispered.-  "Alice!" 
He  gazed  at  a  face  strong  and  full,  with  deep  curved  lips  and  wide 
jaw,  and  large  dark  eyes,  deeply  browed  and  striking,  the  face  of  a 
woman  to  beckon  to  a  man,  to  make  him  forget,  for  a  time — and  that 
was  Alice  Ellison,  as  he  had  known  her  years  ago,  before — he  turned 
away.     He  tried  to  laugh,  to  mock. 

"  Bless  you,  ladies,  I've  often  said  I  would  like  to  see  you  all  together 
in  the  same  room.  Eh — but  the  finding  of  it — oh,  we  never  do  find 
it,  do  we?     Not  love.     I  never  could  depend  on  myself. 

"What's  this?  Why,  here's  my  old  pistol.  Twelve  years  old. 
I  thought  I'd  lost  it.  Loaded!  My  faith,  loaded  for  twelve  years. 
Wonder  if  it  would  go  off." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  looking  into  the  trunk,  the  revolver 
in  his  hand.  Slowly,  slowly,  as  though  against  his  will,  his  face  turned, 
and  he  found  himself  looking  down  at  the  pictured  smiling  faces  that 
stared  up  at  him.  The  last  picture  seemed  to  frighten  him  with  its 
smile.     "Alice!"    he  whispered.     Then  all  the  pictures  smiled. 

"My  God!"  cried  Henry  Decherd.  "They're  alive!  They're 
coming  to  life!" 

They  stood  about  him  now  in  the  little  room,  smiling,  beckoning — 
Alice,  Nora,  Kate,  Jane,  Margaret,  all  the  rest,  as  he  addressed  them. 
They  smiled  and  beckoned;  but  he  could  not  reply,  whether  to  those 
honest  or  not  honest,  to  those  deceived  or  undeceived. 

The  face  of  Alice  Ellison,  strong-jawed,  dark-browed,  large-eyed, 
stared  at  him  steadily  from  behind  a  certain  chair.  He  could  see 
that  her  hair  was  wet.  It  hung  down  on  her  neck,  on  her  shoulders. 
It  clung  to  her  temples.  Her  eyes  gazed  at  him  stonily  now.  He  saw 
it  all  again — the  struggle!  He  heard  his  own  accusations  and  hers. 
He  heard  her  pleading,  her  cry  for  mercy;  and  then  her  cry  of  terror. 
He  saw  her  face,  staring  up  at  him  from  the  water.    As  he  gazed,  the 


100  WERNER'S  READINGS 

other  faces  faded  away  into  the  darkness.  He  stocd,  staring,  with 
the  pistol  in  his  hand,  Henry  Decherd5  murderer  of  the  woman  whom 
he  once  had  loved. 

*  *  *  *  *  #  *  * 

The  porter  of  the  hotel  said  on  the  next  day  that  he  remembered 
hearing  late  in  the  night  a  sort  of  crash,  which  sounded  like  the  dropping 
of  a  trunk  lid.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was.  The  lid  of  the  grave 
had  fallen  on  Henry  Decherd ! 


HOW  A   WOMAN   BUYS   MEAT. 


¥ 


MARY  TUCKER   MAGILL. 


QCENE— A  butcher's    stall  with  a  butcher  behind    it.     Enter    a 
O     youngish  woman  with  a  doubtful,  bewildered  air. 

Butcher  [rubbing  his  hands]:    "What  will  you   have,  madam,  this 
morning?" 

"I'll  take  some  mut "  (stops  suddenly  as  her  eye  catches  sight 

of  a  ham).     "Is  that  nice  ham?" 

"Best  ham  I  ever  saw,  ma'am — country  cured.     How  much   will 
you  take  ?     Cut  you  any  quantity." 

"  "Is  it  hog  ham?" 
<^  "  Certainly,  ma'am ;  certainly." 

"Has  it  got  any  of  those  little  bugs  in  it  that  kill  people?" 
(."Oh,  no,  ma'am;   it's  perfectly  healthy.     I'll  warrant  it." 

"Well,    you    may   give   me   three p 1   don't   know,    either. 

My  husband  was  saying  he'd  like  some  sausage.     Have  you  any  real 
nice  sausage?" 

"  Plenty,  madam.     Now,  then,  how  much  sausage  will  you  have  ?  " 

"Is  it  pork  sausage?" 

"What  else  could  it  be,  my  dear  madam?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know;   but  I  have  heard  that  they  make  it  of  cats 
and  dogs,  and  even  rats,  sometimes." 

(Butcher  regards  her  with  silent  indignation.) 

"Well,  how  much  do  you  sell  for  a  family  of  four  persons?" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  101 

"Indeed,  madam,  it  would  depend  upon  your  appetites." 
"Well,  I  suppose  a  pound  would  be  enough." 
f""Shall  I  weigh  you  a  pound,  madam?" 

"  Wait  a  moment.     I  was  just  wondering  if  a  veal  pot-pie  wouldn't 
suit  him  better.     You  have  veal  ?  " 

/^Certainly,  madam;    the  very  best  of  veal.     Here  is  as  good  a 
piece  as  I  ever  saw." 

"That  looks  very  nice.     Is  it  made  of  the  young  lamb?" 
{"  Oh,  no,  madam ;  veal  is  calf  meat." 
/"Oh,  yes;  I  forgot." 
CWillyou  take  it?" 

£  Let's  see! [muses] Y no.    I  guess  I  had  better  take 

pork^hops." 
{"  Nice  chops.     How  much?" 

~""One  of  those  slices  will  weigh  a  pound,  I  suppose?" 
(^NhovX  a  pound,  madam." 

"And  you  are  sure  it  was  a  young  pork?" 
C     A  very  young  hog." 

uid  you'll  cut  the  rind  off?" 
5;  madam." 

(-*rWell 1 don't   know   about   it.     I   don't   like   to   take   the 

responsibility  of  hog  meat.     I  think  I  will  take  beefsteak." 
£_'_yery  nice  steak." 

"Will  you  cut  the  meat  part,  and  be  sure  to  cut  out  the  bone?" 
<^Yes,  madam,  as  it's  for  you." 

"What's  the  price  of  it?" 
{^'Fourteen  cents  a  pound." 

"Oh,  dear,  that's  too  much!" 
-  Butcher   [in  despair]:    "Well,   madam,   here's   some  good   sound 
liver,  five  cents  a  pound,  if  you'll  take  it.' 

"Oh,  that's  very  nice.     My  husband  is  very  fond  of  liver.     I'll 
take  half  a  pound!" 
""And  -  she   did  take  half  a  pound,   and  walked  off  triumphantly, 
leaving  the  butcher  about  as  savage  as  his  own  meat-axe. 


102  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE    OLD   FLAG. 


FRANK   L.    STANTON. 


SHE'S  up  there — Old  Glory — where  lightnings  are  sped 
She  dazzles  the  nations  with  ripples  of  red ; 
And  she'll  wave  for  us  living,  or  droop  o'er  us  dead — 
The  flag  of  our  country  forever : 

She's  up  there — Old  Glory — how  bright  the  stars  stream! 
And  the  stripes  like  red  signals  of  liberty  gleam! 
And  we  dare  for  her,  living,  or  dream  the  last  dream 
'Neath  the  flag  of  our  country  forever! 
She's  up  there — Old  Glory — no  tyrant-dealt  scars — 
No  blur  on  her  brightness — no  stain  on  her  stars ! 
The  brave  blood  of  heroes  have  crimsoned  her  bars- 
She's  the  flag  of  our  country  forever! 


ANNOUNCING   THE   ENGAGEMENT. 


JOHN   HABERTON. 


MR.  HARRY  BURTON  was  spending  his  vacation  at  the  house 
of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Laurence,  and  taking  charge  of  the  house 
and  two  small  nephews,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Laurence  were  visiting 
a  friend.  Mrs.  Mayton  and  her  daughter  were  boarding  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  Mr.  Burton  and  Miss  Alice  Mayton  were  soon  on 
quite  intimate  terms. 

Mrs.  Mayton  was  sitting  in  her  own  room,  leisurely  reading,  when 
she  accidently  dropped  her  glasses.     Stooping  to  pick  them  up,  she 
became  aware  that  she  was  not  alone.     A  small,  very  dirty,  but  good 
featured  boy  stood  before  her,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  an 
inquiring  look  in  his  eyes, 

"  Run  away,  little  boy,  don't  you  know  it  isn't  polite  to  enter  rooms 
without  knocking  ?'* 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  103 

"I'm  lookin'  for  my  uncle,"  said  Toddie  in  a  most  melodious 
accent,  "and  I  thought  you  would  know  when  he  would  come  back." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  little  boys'  uncles.  Now  run  away, 
and  don't  disturb  me  any  more." 

"Well,  your  little  girl  went  with  him,  and  I  thought  you  would 
know  when  she  would  come  back." 

"I  haven't  any  little  girl.     Now,  go  away." 

"  She  isn't  a  very  little  girl,  that  is,  she's  bigger'n  I  am,  but  you're 
her  mother,  an'  so  she's  you're  little  girl,  isn't  she?" 

"Do  you  mean  Miss  Mayton?" 

"Oh,  yes that's  her  name 1  couldn't  think  of  it,  an'  ain't 

she  awful  nice? 1  know  she  is!" 

"Your  judgment  is  quite  correct,  considering  your  age,  but  what 
makes  you  think  she  is  nice  ?  You  are  rather  younger  than  her  male 
admirers  usually  are." 

"Why,  my  Uncle  Harry  told  me  so,  an'  he  knows  everything. 

Mrs.  Mayton  grew  vigilant  at  once.  "Who  is  your  uncle  Harry, 
little  boy?" 

"He's  Uncle  Harry;  don't  you  know  him?  He  can  make  nicer 
whistles  than  my  papa  can." 

"  Who  is  your  papa  ?  " 

"Why,  he's  papa — I  thought  everybody  knew  who  he  was." 

"WTiat  is  your  name?" 

"John  Burton  Laurence." 

"  Is  Mr.  Burton  the  uncle  you  are  looking  for  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  any  Mr.  Burton,  uncle  is  mamma's  brother,  an' 
he's  been  livin'  at  our  house  ever  since  mamma  an'  papa  went  off 

visitin',  an'  he  goes  ridin'  in  our  carriage,  an' an' he  rides  with 

just  the  loveliest  lady  that  ever  was.  He  thinks  so,  an'  I  know  she  is. 
An'  he  'spects  her." 

I  What?" 

"  'Spects  her,  I  say — that's  what  he  says.  I  say  'spects  means 
just  what  /  call  love.  Cos'  if  it  don't,  what  makes  him  give  her  hugs 
and  kisses?" 

Mrs.  Mayton  caught  her  breath. 

"Gives  h«    v,*a  and  kisses?" 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Um,  I  saw  him  the  day  I  hurt  my  finger  in  the  grass-cutter,  an' 
he  was  so  happy  he  bought  me  a  goat-carriage  next  mornin'.  I'll 
show  it  to  you  if  you  come  down  to  our  stable,  and  I'll  show  you  the 
goat,  too." 

But  here  he  stopped,  for  Mrs.  Mayton  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  Two  or  three  minutes  later  she  felt  a  light  touch  on  her  knee; 
"I'm  awful  sorry  you  feel  bad,  are  you  afraid  to  have  your  little  girl 
ridin'  so  long?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be,  for  Uncle  Harry's  awful  careful  an'  smart." 

"He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

"Well,  I  guess  he  is  then,  'cos'  he's  ever'thing  he  ought  to  be.  He's 
awful  careful;  tother  day  when  the  goat  run  away,  he  held  on  to  her 
tight,  so  she  couldn't  fall  out." 

Mrs.  Mayton  brought  her  foot  down  with  a  violent  stamp. 

"  I  know  you'd  'spect  him  if  you  knew  how  nice  he  was.  He 
sings  awful  funny  songs,  an'  tells  splendid  stories." 

"Nonsense!" 

"  They  ain't  no  nonsense  at  all.  I  don't  think  it's  nice  to  say  that, 
when  his  stories  are  always  about  Joseph,  an'  Abraham,  an'  Moses, 
an'  when  Jesus  was  a  little  boy,  an'  the  Hebrew  children,  an'  lots  of 
people  that  the  Lord  loved.     An'  he's  awful  'fectionate,  too." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"When  we  says  our  prayers  we  prays  for  the  nice  lady  what  he 
'spects,  an'  he  likes  us  to  do  it." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"'Cos'  he  always  kisses  us  when  we  do  it,  an'  that's  what  my  papa 
does  when  he  likes  what  we  pray." 

Mrs.  Mayton's  mind  became  absorbed  in  earnest  thought,  but 
Toddie  had  not  said  all  that  was  in  his  heart. 

"  An'  when  we  tumbles  down  an'  hurts  ourselves,  'taint  no  matter 
what  Uncle  Harry's  doin';  he  runs  right  out  an'  picks  us  up  an'  comforts 
us.  He  froed  away  a  cigar  the  other  day  when  a  wasp  stung  me,  an' 
I  picked  it  up  an'  ate  it,  an'  it  made  me  awful  sick." 

Mrs.  Mayton  had  been  thinking  rapidly  and  seriously,  and  her 
heart  had  relented  somewhat  toward  the  principal  offender. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37,  105 

"Suppose  that  I  don't  let  my  little  girl  go  riding  with  him  any 
more?" 

"Then  I  know  he'll  be  awful  unhappy,  an'  I'll  be  awful  sorry  for 
him,  'cos'  I  don't  fink  nice  folks  ought  to  be  made  unhappy." 

"Suppose,  then,  that  I  do  let  her  go?" 

"  Well,  I'll  give  you  a  whole  stomack  full  of  kisses !"  And  assuming 
that  the  latter  course  would  be  adopted,  he  climbed  into  Mrs.  Mayton's 
lap,  and  began  to  make  payment  at  once. 

"Bless  your  dear  little  heart!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mayton,  "you're 
of  the  same  blood,  and  it  is  good,  if  it  is  rather  hasty." 

And  the  young  people  who  were  perplexed  about  the  best  way 
of  announcing  their  engagement  found  it  done  for  them,  and  Mrs. 
Mayton's  blessing  about  to  follow. 


THE    CRATCHITS'    CHRISTMAS   DINNER. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


TINY  Tim's  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and 
back  he  came  escorted  by  his  brother  and  sister  to  his  stool 
beside  the  fire;  and  while  Bob,  turning  up  his  cuffs — as  if,  poor  fellow, 
they  were  capable  of  being  made  more  shabby — compounded  some 
hot  mixture  in  a  jug  with  gin  and  lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and 
round,  and  put  it  on  the  hob  to  simmer,  Master  Peter  and  the  two 
ubiquitous  young  Cratchits  went  to  fetch  the  goose,  which  they  soon 
returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have  thought  a  goose  the 
rarest  of  all  birds;  a  feathered  phenomenon,  to  which  a  black  swan 
was  a  matter  of  course;  and,  in  truth,  it  was  something  very  like 
it  in  that  house.  Mrs.  Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand 
in  a  little  saucepan)  hissing  hot;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  potatoes 
with  incredible  vigor;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  the  apple-sauce; 
Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates;  Bob  took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a 
tiny  corner,  at  the  table;  the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  every- 
body, not  forgetting  themselves,,  and,  mounting  guard  upon  their  posts, 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 

crammed  spoons  into  their  mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  fcr  gcc^e 
before  their  turn  came  to  be  helped. 

At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and  grace  was  said.  It  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  breathless  pause,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along 
the  carving-knife,  prepared  to  plunge  it  into  the  breast;  but  when  she 
did,  and  when  the  long-expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one 
murmur  of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board;  and  even  Tiny  Tim, 
excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table  with  the  handle 
of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried  hurrah! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't  believe  there  was 
ever  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness  and  flavor,  size  and  cheap- 
ness, were  the  themes  of  universal  admiration.  Eked  out  by  the 
apple-sauce  and  mashed  potatoes,  it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the 
whole  family;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight  (sur- 
veying one  small  atom  of  a  bone  on  the  dish),  they  hadn't  ate  it  all 
at  last!  Yet  every  one  had  had  enough,  and  the  youngest  Cratchits  in 
particular  were  steeped  in  sage  and  onion  to  the  eyebrows!  But  now, 
the  plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the  room 
alone — too  nervous  to  bear  witness — to  take  the  pudding  up  and  bring 
it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  dene  enough!  Suppose  it  should  break 
in  turning  out!  Suppose  somebody  should  have  got  over  the  wall 
of  the  back  yard  and  stolen  it  while  they  were  merry  with  the  goose! 
A  supposition  at  which  the  two  young  Cratchits  became  livid.  All 
sorts  of  horrors  were  supposed.  Hallo!  A  great  deal  of  steam! 
The  pudding  was  out  of  the  copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day! 
That  was  the  cloth.  A  smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pastry-cook's 
next  door  to  each  other,  with  a  laundress's  next  door  to  that!  That 
was  the  pudding.  In  half  a  minute  Mrs.  Cratchit  entered,  flushed, 
but  smiling  proudly,  with  the  pudding  like  a  speckled  cannon-ball, 
so  hard  and  firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half-a-quartern  of  ignited  brandy, 
and  bedight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the  top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding!  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and  calmly  too, 
that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success  achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit 
since  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that  now  the  weight  was 
oft  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she  had  had  her  doubts  about  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  107 

quantity  of  flour.  Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  at  all  a  small  pudding  for  so  large  a 
family.  It  would  have  been  flat  heresy  to  do  so.  Any  Cratchit  would 
have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a  thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared,  the  hearth 
swept  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound  in  the  jug  being  tasted 
and  considered  perfect,  apples  and  oranges  were  put  upon  the  table, 
and  a  shovelful  of  chestnuts  on  the  fire.  Then  all  the  Cratchit  family 
drew  round  the  hearth,  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a  circle,  meaning 
half  a  one;  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow  stood  the  family  display  of 
glass;  two  tumblers,  and  a  custard-cup  without  a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as  well  as  golden 
goblets  could  have  done;  and  Bob  served  it  out  with  beaming  looks, 
while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sputtered  and  cracked  noisily.  Then 
Bob  proposed :  "  A  Merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.  God  bless 
us!"  Which  all  the  family  re-echoed.  "God  bless  us  every  one!" 
said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of  all. 


ONE,   TWO,    THREE. 


H.  C.  BUNNER. 


IT  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  who  was  half -past  three ; 
And  the  way  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  couldn't  go  running  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 
With  a  thin,  little,  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple  tree: 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I'll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 


108  WERNER'S  READINGS 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be — ■ 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three! 

"You  are  in  the  china  closet!" 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee — 

It  wasn't  the  china  closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"You  are  up  in  papa's  big  bedroom, 
In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key!" 

And  she  said:  "You  are  warm  and  warmer; 
But  you're  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard, 

Where  mamma's  things  used  to  be- 
So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma!" 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
That  were  wrinkled,  white  and  wee; 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places 

Right  under  the  maple  tree — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee — 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  109 


WHAT   JACK   SAID. 


J.  L.    HARBOUR. 


IF  there  is  one  thing  more  than  another  calculated  to  throw  a  man 
into  a  gnashing  of  the  teeth  and  tearing  of  the  hair  condition,  it 
is  his  attempt  to  give  the  wife  of  his  bosom  an  account  of  some  ordinary 
affair,  to  which  she  listens  after  this  fashion : 

He.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  must  tell  you  something  Jack  Burroughs 
told  me  to-day  while — ■ 

She.     Where  did  you  see  Jack  Burroughs  ? 

"Oh,  we  went  to  luncheon  together,  and — " 

"How  did  you  happen  to  go  out  to  luncheon  together?" 

"Well,  we  didn't  exactly  go  out  together;  I  met  Jack  on  the  restau- 
rant steps,  and — " 

"  What  restaurant  ?  " 

"  Calloway's ;  and  Jack — " 

"How  did  you  happen  to  go  to  Calloway's ?  I  thought  you  always 
lunched  at  Draper's." 

"I  nearly  always  do;  but  I  just  happened  to  drop  into  Calloway's 
to-day  along  with  Jack,  and — " 

"Does  he  always  lunch  at  Calloway's?" 

"I'm  sure,  my  dear"  (a  little  sharply),  "that  I  don't  know  if  he 
does  or  not.     It  makes  no  earthly  difference  if — " 

"Oh,  of  course  not."  (Hastily.)  "I  just  wondered  if  he  did; 
that's  all.     Go  on  with  your  story." 

"Well,  while  we  were  eating  our  soup,  Jack — " 

"What  kind  of  soup?" 

"Turtle.     Jack  said  that—" 

"I  thought  you  disliked  turtle  soup." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  much  about  it;  but — " 

"How  did  you  happen  to  order  it  if  you  didn't  care  for  it?" 

"Because  I  did."  (Severely.)  "But  the  soup  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  story." 

"Oh,  of  course  not."     (In  a  grieved  tone.)     "I  never  said  that 


110  WERNER'S  READINGS 

it  did.  I  don't  see  why  you  should  get  cross  over  a  simple  question. 
Go  on." 

Well,  while  we  were  eating  our  soup,  Lawrence  Hildreth  and  his 
new  wife  came  in,  and — " 

"They  did?" 

"I  have  just  said  so." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  cross  about  it." 

"They  came  in,  and — " 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"  Pretty  enough.     Jack  bowed  and — " 

"  Does  he  know  them  ?" 

"Well,  now,  do  you  suppose  he  would  have  bowed  if  he  hadn't 
known  them  ?     I  declare  if  I — " 

"How  was  she  dressed  ?" 

"How  should  I  know?  I  never  looked  at  her  dress.  What  I 
was  going  to  tell  you  was  that — " 

"Did  they  sit  near  you?" 

"Yes,  at  the  next  table.  And  while  they  were  ordering,  Jack 
said  that  they — " 

"Couldn't  they  hear  him?" 

"Do  you  suppose"  (fiercely)  "that  Jack  would  have  no  more  sense 
than  to  let  them  hear  him  talking  about  them?     I'll  swear  if — " 

"  James,  if  you  can't  tell  a  simple  little  incident  without  getting 
into  a  passion,  you'd  better  keep  it  to  yourself.     What  did  Jack  say?' 

"He  said  that  Mrs.  Hildreth's  father  was  opposed  to  the  match, 
and—" 

"How  did  he  know  that ?" 

"Great  Casar!     There  you  go  again!" 

"James,  will  you  please  remember  that  it  is  your  wife  to  whom 
you  are  speaking,  sir?" 

"  No  other  woman  would  drive  me  raving,  distracted  crazy,  asking 
silly  questions  about — " 

"James!" 

"Every  time  I  try  to  tell  you  anything  you  begin,  and  you — " 

"James"  (raising  with  dignity  and  saying  stiffly),  "I  do  not  propose 
listening  to  any  such  insulting  remarks,  and — " 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  Ill 

"You  never  listen  to  anything.     That's  the  trouble.     If — " 

"  When  I  ask  a  simple  question,  you — " 

"I'd  say  'simple.'  You've  asked  me  a  million  'simple'  questions  in 
the  last  half  hour,  just  because  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  Jack  Bur- 
roughs said  that — " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  what  Mr.  Jack  Burroughs  said,  if  you  can 
not  tell  it  respectfully.  I  shall  have  my  dinner  sent  to  my  room,  since 
it  is  so  painful  for  you  to  eat  with  an  idiot/"  (Retires  scornfully,  while 
he  narrowly  escapes  an  attack  of  apoplexy.) 


NATHAN   HALE. 


SARA   KING   WILEY. 


\ 


SWIFTLY  through  the  silent  forest, 
Life  and  death  hung  in  the  scale, 
When  each  heart-throb  seemed  a  drum-beat, 
Sped  the  spy — young  Nathan  Hale. 

He  had  done  his  dangerous  errand, 
Learned  each  British  stronghold  well, 
Now  rejoicing  and  successful 
Ran  the  longed-for  news  to  tell. 

Sudden,  through  the  tangled  bushes, 
Gleamed  a  rifle  close  at  hand, 
And  like  cannon  in  the  stillness 
Came  the  sentry's  challenge,  "Stand!" 

In  the  British  camp  reigned  fury ; 
"  Do  not  let  the  scamp  be  tried ! 
Shooting's  far  too  noble  for  him, 
Hang  him  like  a  dog!"   they  cried. 

Flashed  the  golden  autumn  sunshine 
On  the  waving  lines  of  steel, 
Sweetly  o'er  the  river  echoing 
Rang  the  bugle's  stirring  peal. 


V 


WERNER'S  READINGS 

Brighter  than  the  scarlet  maple, 
Flamed  the  throng  about  the  jail; 
Forth,  in  worn  and  ragged  homespun, 
Came  the  rebel — Nathan  Hale. 

Standing  pinioned  on  a  wagon, 
Looked  the  young  man  on  the  crowd, 
"Speak,"  the  soldier  said  beside  him, 
"Speak  your  last,  it  is  allowed." 

"I've  but  one  regret,"  thus  said  he, 
"Since  I've  this  short  time  to  live; 
•That  for  my  beloved  country 
I  have  but  one  life  to  give." 

As  he  spoke,  a  sudden  glory 
Shone  across  that  face  so  pale, 
And  with  lips  of  smiling  courage, 
Died  the  hero — Nathan  Hale. 


J- 


ts* 


NGEL'S   WICKEDInESS. 


MARIE    CORELLI. 


THATE  God!"  said  Argel,  and  surveyed  her  horrified  audience 
defiantly, 
t  was  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  Reverend  Josiah  Snawley  was 
^.intending  a  Bible-class  in  one  of  the  worst  quarters  of  the  East 
End,  assisted  by  Miss  Powser,  a  lady  of  uncertain  age.  The  children 
were  the  miserable  offspring  of  fathers  and  mothers  whose  chief  business 
it  was  to  starve  uncomplainingly.  And  Angel  was  one  of  the  thinnest 
and  most  ragged  of  them  all. 

"Was  that  Angel  Middleton  who  spoke?"  inquired  the  Reverend 
Josiah.  "Say  it  again,  Angel!  but  no.  You  will  not  dare  to  say  it 
again!" 

"  Yes,  I  will.     I  hate  God  !     There ' " 

A  terrible  pause  ensued.     The  other  children  stared  in  stupc-^- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   jy.  113 

amazement;  they  did  not  quite  understand  who  "God"  was,  but 
they  had  a  dim  idea  that  it  was  very  wrong  to  hate  Him!  Miss  Pow- 
ser  was  limp  with  horror ! 

"I  am  shocked,"  said  the  Rev.  Josiah  Snawley,  "and  pained  and 
grieved  I^TI ere  is  a  child — one  who  has  been  taught  Bible-lessons 
Sunday  after  Sunday — who  tells  me  she  hates  God !  What  blasphemy ! 
What  temper!  Stand  forward,  Angel  Middleton!  Come  out  of  the 
class!" 

Angel  obeyed. 

"Now!     Explain  yourself!     Why  do  you  hate  God  ?" 

Angel  looked  steadily  on  the  floor,  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"Because  I  do/" 

"That's  no  answer!  Really,  Miss  Powser,  you  should  not  have 
admitted  such  a  child  as  this  into  the  Sunday-school.  She  seems  a 
mere  insolent  heathen! " 

Miss  Powser  feebly  murmured  that  the  child  had  better  be  dismissed- 

"  Dismissed  ?  Of  course.  Angel  Middleton  ?  You  must  never 
come  here  again!" 

"All  right.     I  don't  care." 

"  Oh,  Angel!"  moaned  Miss  Powser.  "  I  had  hoped  for  much  better 
things  from  you.     Your  father — "      u 

"That's  it.  That's  why  I  hate  God.  You  teach  us  that  God 
does  everything;  well,  then,  God  is  killing  father.  Father  never 
did  any  harm  to  any  one;  and  yet  he's  dying.  I  know  he  is!  He 
couldn't  get  work  when  he  was  well,  and  now  there  isn't  enough  to 
eat,  and  there's  no  fire,  and  we're  as  miserable  as  ever  we  can  be,  and 
all  the  time  you  say  God  is  good  and  loves  us.  I  don't  believe  it!  If 
God  won't  care  for  father,  than  I  won't  care  for  God." 

"  You  are  a  very  wicked,  ignorant  child,'  the  Rev.  Josiah  declared 
sternly.  "If  your  father  can't  get  work,  it  is  most  probably  his  own 
fault.  If  he  is  ill  there  is  always  the  workhouse.  And  if  God  doesn't 
take  care  of  him  as  you  say,  it  must  be  because  he's  a  bad  man.  ' 

Angel's  big  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"Yer  lie!     He's  worth  a  dozen  such  as  you,  anyway." 

And  with  this  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  left  the  school-room, 

jj        '  v,  turning  $£  igk  Cofeing  t " *  olemnly : 

p*e-oK 

\    " 


114  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Children,  you  have  seen  to-day  a  terrible  exhibition  of  the  power 
of  Satan.  Now,  remember,  never  let  me  see  any  of  you  playing  with 
Angel  Middleton,  she's  a  bad  girl — do  you  hear?" 

He  was  about  to  resume  his  instructions,  when  a  little  shrill,  piping 
voice  cried  out: 

"Please,  sir,  I  want  to  leave  the  class,  sir!" 

"  You  want  to  leave  the. class,  Johnnie  Coleman!   what  for?" 

"Please,  sir,  'cos  Angel's  gone,  sir!  Yer  see,  sir,  I  can't  anyways 
promise  not  to  speak  to  Angel,  sir;  she's  my  gal!" 

"Your  gal!  John  Coleman,  you  surprise  me!" 

"  'Iss,  sir.  She's  my  gal,  an'  l?m  her  bloke.  Lor'  bless  yer,  sir, 
we've  bin  so  fur  years  an'  years — ivver  since  we  wos  babbies,  sir.  Yer 
see,  sir,  'twouldn't  do  fur  me  to  go  agin  Angel  now — 'twouldn't  be 
gentleman-like,  sir!  I  spec's  Angel's  hungry,  sir.  Yer  don't  know, 
sir,  what  it  is  to  'ave  a  gnawin'  in  yer  inside,  sir.  Oh,  it's  orful  bad, 
sir!  really  'tis,  sir — makes  yer  'ate  everybody  wot's  got  their  stum- 
micks  full.  An'  when  Angel  gets  a  bit  'ere  an'  there,  she  gives  it  all 
to  'er  father,  sir,  an'  niver  a  mossul  for  'erself;  an'  now  e's  a  going 
to  ;is  long  'ome,  so  they  sez,  an'  it's  'ard  on  Angel  anyways,  and — -" 

"That  will  do!"  burst  out  Mr.  Snawley  loudly.  "You  can 
go." 

"'Iss,  sir.  Thank-ye,  sir.  Much  obleeged,  sir."  And,  with 
many  a  shuffle  and  grin,  Johnnie  startea  .1  at  a  run,  intending  to 
join  Angel  and  comfort  her  as  best  he  might.  For  once,  however, 
he  failed  to  find  her  in  any  of  those  particular  haunts  they  two  were 
wont  to  patronize. 

"S'pose  she's  gone  home!"  he  muttered  discontentedly.  "An' 
she  won't  thank  me  for  botherin'  round  w'en  'er  father's  so  bad.  Never 
imind!  I'll  wait  near  the  alley  in  case  she  comes  out  an'  wants  me 
for  enny think." 

Angel  had  gone  home — "home"  being  a  sort  of  close  cupboard 
where  on  a  common  truckle-bed,  scantily  covered,  lay  the  sleeping 
figure  of  a  man.  He  was  not  more  than  forty  at  most — but  Death 
had  marked  his  pale,  pinched  features  with  the  great  Sign  Ineffaceable, 
and  as  he  slept  the  rapid  breath  was  drawn  in  shorter  gasps  of  pain 
and  difficulty.        ;c  ensued.     *..  .-.<.- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  115 

"How  can  I?"  murmured  Angel,  "how  can  I  love  God,  when  He 
is  so  cruel  to  father?" 

Just  then  the  sick  man  stirred  and  smiled  faintly. 

"Is  that  you,  Angel?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Ain't  you  been  to  class,  dearie?" 

"Yes,    father.     But — but   they   don't   want   me   there   no   more." 

"Don't  want  yer  there  no  more!     Why,  Angel — " 

"Don't  ye  worry,  father.  I  said  I  hated  God,  and  Mr.  Snawley 
said  I  was  wicked,  an'  I  s'pose  I  am,  but  I'm  sick  of  their  preachin' 
an'  nonsense,  an'  it  don't  make  you  no  better." 

"Don't  ye,  Angel!  Don't  ye  hate  God,  my  little  gel!  ye  mustn't — ■ 
no,  no!  God's  good;  always  good,  my  dear!  It's  all  right  wi'  Him, 
Angel;  it's  the  world  that  forgets  Him  that's  wrong.  God  does  every- 
thing kind,  dearie. N- ,  He  gave  me  your  mother,  an'  He  only  took  her 
away  when  she  was  tired  an'  wanted  to  go.  All  for  the  best,  Angel! 
All  for  the  best,  little  lass!  Love  God,  my  child,  love  Him  with  all 
your  heart,  an'  all  your  soul,  an'  all  your  mind." 

"Why  was  I  called  Angel,  father?" 

"Just  a  fancy  o'  mine  an'  your  mother's,  my  dear.  We  was  young 
an'  happy-like  then,  an'  work  was  easier  to  get;  an'  such  a  dear  sweet 
baby  lass  y,e  were  when  ye  were  born,  with  gold  curls  all  over  your 
head  an'  bonnie  bright  eyes,  that  we  said  ye  were  like  a  little  angel. 
Angel  by  name  an'  angel  by  nature,  dearie.  Yes,  yes!  it's  all  right. 
God  gave  ye  to  me,  an'  He  knows  all — all  the  trouble  an'  worry  an' 
fret—" 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  sat  up  straight  in  bed. 

"Father!   father!    what  is  it?"  cried  the  child. 

"Angel!  look!  there's  your  mother!  I  knew  she'd  come!  Don't 
ye  hate  God,  my  little  gel!     He's  sent  her  for  me." 

"Father!  father!"  she  sobbed,  sinking  on  her  knees  in  a  passion 
of  grief. 

His  hand  wandered  feebly  to  her  bent  head,  and  lay  coldly  on  her 
warm  soft  hair. 

"Don't  ye — hate — God — Angel.     Love  Him! —  an'- — an'  He'll  take 

All  right,  my  lass,  I'm  coming!" 
f^e  0*.. 


116      /  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He  fell  back  heavily.  With  a  shriek  of  agony  the  desolate  child 
flung  herself  across  her  father's  stiffening  corpse,  unable  to  realize 
his  death. 

Late  on  that  same  evening  Johnnie  Coleman,  sleepy  and  disappointed, 
prepared  to  leave  the  corner  of  the  alley  where  he  had  kept  faithful 
vigil  all  the  afternoon.  Suddenly  his  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  bright 
glare  in  the  sky  and  the  cry  "Fire!  Fire!"  resounded  through  the 
street.  It  was  some  distance  away,  and 'as  he  ran  he  was  unaware 
that  Angel  Middleton  pursued  him.  She  had  crept  out  of  her  dwelling, 
sick  with  hunger  and  stupefied  with  grief,  and  perceiving  her  ragged 
boy-friend  waiting  for  her  at  the  corner  had  been  just  about  to  call 
him  by  name,  when  off  he  had  rushed  at  the  pace  described  and  she 
followed.  Soon  the  two  were  lost  in  a  great  crowd  of  people  who 
stood  looking  up  at  the  flames  that  darted  from  the  roof  and  walls  of 
the  house  of  a  grocer.  Because  of  the  inflammable  nature  of  the  goods, 
the  fire  grew  fast  and  furious,  and  though  the  engines  rapidly  arrived 
it  was  evident  that  very  little  could  be  done  to  save  the  perishing  build- 
ing.\  The  owner  of  the  place  threw  himself  from  one  of  the  windows 
and  escaped  by  a  miracle  without  injury;  but  when  his  wife,  half- 
suffocated  with  smoke,  was  dragged  out  from  the  burning  walls  more' 
dead  than  alive,  she  struggled  frantically  to  rush  back  again  into  the 
heart  of  the  flames. 

"My  children!  my  baby!"  she  screamed.  "Save  them!  Oh,  let 
me  die  with  them!" 

"Steady,  mother!"  said  one  of  the  pitying  firemen.  "'Tain't  no 
use  frettin'.     Leave  the  little  'uns  to  God!" 

Yes,  truly  to  God,  and — His  "Angel!"  For  suddenly  the  crowd 
parted;  a  little  girl,  white-faced  and  dark-eyed,  with  golden-brown 
hair  streaming  behind  her  like  a  comet,  rushed  through  and  made 
straight  for  the  burning  house.  There  was  a  horrified  pause;  then 
Johnnie  Coleman's  shrill  voice  cried  out: 

"It's   Angel!" 

"Angel  Middleton!"  roared  the  crowd.  "Hooray  for  Angel! 
There's  a  brave  gal  for  ye!     See;  she's  got  the  baby!" 

And,  sure  enough,  there,  at  one  of  the  burnt-out  windows,  St£ 
smoke  and  flame  eddying  around  her,  stood  Angel,  with  a  ti 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  I    117 

in  her  arms.     Several  people   rushed   forward,  holding  an  extended 
sheet. 

"Throw  it,  Angel!  Never  fear!  Throw  it  down!" 

She  did  so  and  vanished  only  to  reappear  again  with  two  more 
small  children.  She  leaned  far  out  over  the  smoking  window-frame 
and  called: 

"Are  there  any  more  children?     Are  these  all?" 

"All!"  shrieked  the  mother.  "You've  saved  them  all!  Go  J 
love  you,  dear!" 

Once  more  the  protecting  sheet  was  outspread,  and  Angel  let  one 
child  after  another  drop  straightly  and  steadily  from  her  hold;  they 
were  caught  and  saved,  uninjured.    A  great  cry  went  up  from  the  crowd. 

"Quick,  quick,  Angel!    Jump!" 

A  smile  crossed  her  pale  face;  she  was  just  about  to  leap  when, 
with  a  sickening  crash,  the  brickwork  beneath  her  gave  way  and  crum- 
bled to  ruins.  Quickly  all  hands  went  to  the  rescue  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  dragged  her  forth  crushed  and  dying,  but  not  dead. 

"I  was  wicked,"  said  Angel  softly.  "You  must  tell  them  all, 
Johnnie — at  class — that  I  was  wicked,  an' — that  I  am — sorry  I  sail 
I  hated  God;  I  didn't  understand.  It's  all  for  the  best — father's 
gone,  an'  I'm  goin' — an'  I'm  so  glad,  Johnnie — -so  happy!  Bury 
me  with  father,  please — an'  tell  everybody — everybody— that  I  lovs 
God — ■now."' 

There  was  a  silence.  The  fireman  supporting  the  girl's  head  sud- 
denly raised  his  hand  and  those  who  wore  hats  in  the  crowd  reverently 
lifted  them.  The  smothered  sobbing  of  tender-hearted  women  alone 
broke  the  stillness;  the  stars  seemed  to  tremble  in  the  sky  as  the 
Greater  Angel  descended  and  bore  away  the  lesser  one  on  wings  of 
light  to  heaven.     \J 

WHAT   THEY   CALL   IT. 

GRANDMA  says  we're  right  in  style, 
A-sittin'  in  our  automo-bile. 

Grandpa  says  we're  fit  to  kill, 
A-ridin  in  our  automo-bili. 


118  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Ma,  she  says  we  ought  to  feel 
Grateful  fer  our  automo-beel. 

Pa  says  there  ain't  no  other  man 
Kin  run  an  auto  like  he  can. 

Auntie  preaches  near  and  far 
'Bout  our  lovely  touring-car. 

Uncle  Bill  says  he  ain't  seen 
Nowhere  such  a  good  machine. 

Brother  Jim,  he  keeps  a-braggin' 
'Bout  the  speed  of  our  new  wagon. 

But,  oh,  it  sounds  so  grand  and  noble 
When  sister  Sue  says  automoble. 


THE    GREAT    COLLEGE-CIRCUS   FIGHT. 


JESSE   LYNCH   WILLIAMS. 


THE  telegram  said :  "  You  are  hereby  warned  finally  to  keep  away 
from  this  town  with  your  show." 

"Colonel"  Charles  Baker,  proprietor  of  Cherokee  Charlie's  Grand 
Combination  Circus  and  Wild  West  Wonders,  said,  "Well,  Bill, 
if  those  young  college  dudes  are  looking  for  trouble  I  reckon  we  ought 
to  be  able  to  accommodate  'em." 

One-Barrel  Bill  said,  "Huh."  This  meant  that  he  agreed  with 
his  boss  and  anticipated  a  diversion. 

"We  did  last  year,"  said  Cherokee  Charlie. 

"We  did,"  said  One-Barrel. 

"I  reckon  we  can  again,"  said  Cherokee  Charlie. 

"I  reckon,"  said  One-Barrel  solemnly. 

So  that  is  the  way  it  was  decided. 

No  circus  ought  to  come  to  any  college  town.  At  this  college  it 
was  one  of  the  traditions  that  no  parade  should  pass  in  front  of  the 
campus  gate — without  being  broken  up. 

3j*  *JC  ^C  5JC  3|S  tP  5|»  -J* 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  119 

Two  days  before  the  circus  was  due  a  special  meeting  of  the  Dis- 
cipline Committee  was  called. 

"If  we  could  only  induce  the  ringleaders  to  be  sensible  for  a  few 
minutes,"  the  President  of  the  University  was  saying.  "Who  is  at 
the  head  of  the  movement  ?  " 

"Mr.  Stehman,  of  course,"  said  one  of  the  younger  professors. 
"  It  was  he  who  instigated  the  disturbance  last  year ;  it  is  chiefly  for  that 
you  recollect,  that  he  is  now  on  probation." 

"He  is  absolutely  fearless,  and  quite  as  unscrupulous,"  said  another 
professor. 

The  President  looked  thoughtful.  "I  was  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  endeavoring  to  be  serious." 

If  the  Faculty  had  been  infallible,  it  would  not  have  sent  out  at 
just  this  point  an  edict  in  which  glared  the  word  "forbid." 

With  Jack  Stehman  it  stirred  the  lingering  boy  within  him  to  the 
surface. 

"Say,"  he  said  to  a  crowd  of  students,  "what  do  they  think  this  is, 
anyway — a  university  or  a  prep,  school?  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do; 
we'll  call  an  indignation  meeting  of  the  undergraduate  body  and  see 
about  this."' 

"Right!     That's  the  stuff!"    said  other  voices  approvingly. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Stehman.     ''  Tell  everybody  you  see." 

The  crowd  began  to  scatter. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Stehman,  may  I  speak  with  you  a  moment?" 

Stehman  looked  around,  stopped  smiling,  and  hurried  over  to 
the  walk.     It  was  the  President. 

"Mr.  Stehman.  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  trouble  you  to  help  me  about 
this  affair.  I  can't  do  it  alone.  You  have  more  power  over  this  body 
of  men  than  I  have.  They  would  do  for  you  what  they  would  not 
for  me.  I  mean  that  I  can  forbid  their  making  trouble,  but  you  can 
keep  them  from  making  it." 

Stehman  liked  this,  but  he  only  said:  "Well,  sir,  thank  you  very 
much  for  the  compliment;  but  I  don't  believe  I  have  any  influence — 
except,  of  course,  over  the  team." 

"  This  is  no  mild  college  prank  ahead  of  us.     Among  those  coming 


120  WERNER'S  READINGS 

to  this  town  to-morrow  are  some  of  the  wildest  types  our  country  pro- 
duces. They  will  certainly  carry  arms — they  will  probably  use  them. 
There  will  be  serious  trouble — a  riot — bloodshed — perhaps  death. 
Think  of  what  that  means,  Mr.  Stehman.  Think  what  it  means  to 
the  parents  of  those  hurt.  Think  what  it  means  to  all  of  us — to  the 
fair  name  of  the  University  for  whose  honor  you  and  I  are  both  supposed 
to  be  working  in  our  different  ways."  Stehman  was  looking  steadily 
into  the  President's  eyes  now. 

"It  takes  a  long  time  to  make  the  public  forget  headlines  such  as 
those  that  appeared  in  the  papers  lait  year.  Such  occurrences  do  more 
harm  than  can  be  balanced  by  winning  football  championships.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

Stehman  was  kicking  up  gravel.     "Very  likely,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  thought  the  big  football  player,  watching  the  President 
hurry  off,  his  shoulders  bent  with  worry,  "I  never  knew  before  how 
white  that  man  was.  It's  just  my  luck!  if  he  had  only  talked  to  me 
like  this  a  couple  of  weeks  ago  when  the  show-bills  were  first  posted; 
I  don't  say  I  could  have  done  much,  but  I  would  have  kept  my  mouth 
shut,  anyhow.  Or  if  he  had  only  tackled  me  five  minutes  ago  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  bad,  but  now — the  fire's  started,  and  I  don't 
see  how  /  can  stop  it.  Listen  to  that ! "  A  few  loud  voices  in  the  distance 
were  already  shouting,  with  evident  enthusiasm.:  "Hel-lo-o!  Every- 
body! Indignation  meeting — eight  o'clock  this  evening — in  the 
English  room.     Everybody  come ! " 

Everybody  did.  The  place  was  crowded.  A  self-appointed 
committee  had  prepared  resolutions.  "  As  the  cowboys  got  the  better 
of  us  last  year,  it  is  the  duty  of  every  loyal  son  of  the  Alma  Mater 
to  pitch  in  and  clean  out  the  cowboys  this  year,  particularly  since 
the  Faculty  has  forbidden  it."     It  was  received  with  great  applause. 

Then  a  modest,  hard-working  fellow  whom  few  knew  arose  and 
said  in  a  self-conscious  manner  that  he  did  "not  agree  with  the  words 
of  the  last  speaker  nor  with  the  purport  of  the  resolutions." 

They  did  not  jokingly  interrupt  him;  they  kept  coldly  quiet.  His 
speech  did  more  harm  than  good  to  his  side  of  the  question. 

Another  man  jumped  up.  "It's  not  so  serious  as  all  that,"  he  said, 
smiling  confidently  at  the  crowd,  who  smiled  back.     "  Our  friend  here 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  121 

has  too  much  conscience  and  not  enough  sense  of  humor.  Besides, 
we  are  not  infants,  to  be  told  we  must  and  we  must  not.  It's  against 
our  inalienable  rights  and  privileges  as  citizens  of  these  great  and 
glorious  United  States.  Anyway,  let  all  those  who  are  afraid  of  the 
Faculty  or  of  a  little  bloodshed  stay  behind  the  fence  or  in  their  rooms!" 

Just  then  Long  Jack  Stehman  jumped  up,  and  the  crowd  yelled 
and  howled  delightedly.  "Now,  fellows,"  cried  a  shrill,  enthusiastic 
voice,  "let's  have  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  Captain  Stehman. 
Are  you  ready  ?     Hip — Hip  ..." 

The  cheers  made  the  windows  rattle.  When  silence  was  gained 
and  he   cleared   his   throat  to  speak,   some   one  remarked   audibly: 

"Where's  that  bolus,  little  Jackie?"  and  the  room  yelled  with 
laughter  again.  This  referred  to  an  incident  of  the  previous  year, 
when  Stehman  took  the  bolus  away  from  the  Mexican  who  had  knocked 
Reddy  Armstrong  down.  It  now  hung  over  the  mantelpiece  in  Steh- 
man's  room. 

They  had  now  quieted  down  for  the  great  man  to  begin.  "You 
won't  cheer  me  when  you  hear  what  I've  got  to  say.  I  started  the 
rumpus  last  year.  And  now,  I  wish — I  wish  I  hadn't.  I  wish  I  had 
minded  my  own  business." 

"What  are  you  giving  us,  Jack?"  cried  a  voice.  They  were  still 
loving  him,  still  admiring  him. 

"I  mean  every  word  of  it.  This  is  no  time  for  joking.  If  you 
fellows  make  trouble  to-morrow  you'll  be  doing  the  worst  thing  that 
could  happen  to  the  college.  I  am  heartily  opposed  to  passing  this 
resolution."     But  they  looked  puzzled;   they  did  not  believe  him. 

Reddy   Armstrong   leaned   over  toward   Stehman  and  whispered: 

"Don't,  I  tell  you,  old  man;  don't;  it  will  only  hurt  you."  This 
meant  that  it  would  kill  Stehman's  prospects  for  the  senior  class  pres- 
idency; but  Jack,  who  had  thought  of  that,  waved  him  aside.  "I  am 
going  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  what  you  fellows  seem  to  have 
made  up  your  minds  to."     It  was  like  thunder  out  of  blue  sky. 

A  loud,  sneering  voice  now  came  from  the  far  corner:  "Oh,  h — 1!" 
was  what  it  said. 

It  was  the  first  hostile  tone  directed  toward  Stehman,  publicly, 
since  his  greatness  began,  and  it  paralyzed  him.     He  sat  down  defeated. 


122  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"There  goes  the  class  presidency,"  whispered  Reddy  to  Lamason. 

Ignance  Holland  got  up.  He  knew  that  any  one  would  be  welcome 
now;  and,  true  enough,  the  room  veiled  with  relief.  He  had  always 
been  jealous  of  Stehman's  popularity,  and  now  he  saw  his  chance  to 
get  up  in  the  estimation  of  the  college  world  by  stepping  on  his  rival's 
head.     His  had  been  the  voice  from  the  far  corner. 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "self-preservation 
is  the  first  law  of  nature.  I  think  each  of  us  can  imagine  himself  in 
circumstances  in  which  he — " 

"It's  a  lie!"  shouted  Jack  Stehman. 

Holland,  pretending  to  be  surprised,  turned  toward  him.  "What 
is  a  lie,  Jack,  old  man?    Have  I  referred  to  you?" 

Holland's  trick  had  worked,  and  he  went  on,  feeling  that  he  had 
the  sympathy  of  his  hearers : 

"If,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  we,  as  an  undergraduate  body,  are 
cowed  by  ignorant  cowboys  and  greasers,  where  will  our  prestige  go — 
where  will  our  strength  be?  Who  with  spirit  or  athletic  ability  will 
be  drawn  hither?  And,  then,  how  shall  we  be  able  to  cope  successfully 
with  universities  three  and  four  times  our  size,  as  in  our  glorious  past  ? 
(Loud  yells.)  Let  those  who  will,  skulk  at  home — no  doubt  they  have 
good  reasons ;  but  let  all  who  are  true  sons  of  their  glorious  Alma  Mater, 
all  who  would  live  up  to  her  past,  come  forth  and  avenge  her  honor." 

The  Chairman  jumped  up.  "If  there  are  no  further  remarks, 
the  question  will  be  put.     All  in  favor — -" 

Then  came  a  thunderous  "Aye!" 

"  Contrary  minded  ?" 

"No!"  shouted  Stehman.  There  were  not  twenty  voices  that 
joined  with  him,  and  these  were  feeble. 

The  meeting  was  adjourned. 

The  following  morning,  soon  after  chapel,  groups  of  students  began 
to  gather  on  the  main  street. 

The  calliope  after  awhile  started  up,  and  the  procession  turned  the 
corner. 

At  the  head  of  the  cavalcade,  in  Western  costume,  rode  Cherokee 
Charlie.     He  had  given  careful  instructions  to  his  men. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  123 

"All  right  now,  fellows,"  whispered  Holland.  He  was  the  leader 
this  time,  and  meant  to  make  more  of  a  success  of  it  than  Stehman 
had  made  last  year. 

"Now,  then,  all  together!"  he  shouted.  Out  of  several  hundred 
coat  pockets  came  an  assortment  of  the  products  of  market  gardening. 
The  next  instant  they  began  whizzing  through  the  air  at  Cherokee 
Charlie's  Grand  Combination. 

The  students  were  strung  out  along  the  whole  line,  so  that,  except 
for  the  four-in-hand,  in  the  lead,  on  which  sat  the  "Coterie  of  Western 
Beauties,"  the  whole  cast  of  performers  was  receiving  attention  at 
once.  But  the  procession  did  nothing  but  duck  and  swear  and  hold 
in  the  horses.  They  were  following  instructions.  Holland's  strong 
voice  began  again:  "Now's  the  time,  fellows!  At  'em!  Rush 
'em!" 

With  loud  yells  the  whole  line  of  collegians  suddenly  turned  out 
upon  the  street  and  charged  in  upon  the  cavalcade,  shouting  and 
hooting  vigorously;  they  jerked  bridles,  threw  the  remainder  of  the 
ammunition  in  the  showmen's  faces,  slapped  the  horses'  heads,  pulled 
the  cowboys'  stirrups,  and  tried  to  upset  the  smaller  wagons. 

"Ride  through  the  crowd,"  suddenly  said  Cherokee  Charlie  in 
a  matter-of-fact  way;  and,  without  stopping  to  wipe  away  the  debris 
on  their  faces,  they  pulled  hard  on  the  bit,  turned  their  horses'  heads, 
dug  in  their  spurs,  and  began  charging  the  students.  The  latter  were 
obliged  to  fall  back  to  the  sidewalk. 

"All  right!"  shouted  Cherokee  Charlie;  "I  guess  we'll  go  on  with 
the  parade  now."     He  seemed  good-natured  about  it. 

"Do 'em  fellows!  Do 'em  up!"  called  Holland,  who  stood  in  the 
rear. 

"Ride  through  'em  again,"  said  Cherokee  Charlie. 

"Wow!  Wow!  Whoop — hee!"  yelled  the  cowboys,  warming  up 
to  their  work.     They  rounded  the  fellows  up  like  cattle. 

Holland  shouted:  "Here,  take  rocks  to  'em!"  He  picked  up  a 
sizable  stone  from  the  street  and  let  drive  at  Cherokee  Charlie;  it 
crashed  through  a  shop  window  opposite. 

"Let  up  on  that!"  shouted  several  voices.  But  others  followed 
Holland's  example. 


124  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Cherokee  Charlie  whipped  out  his  revolver  and  yelled,  "That'll 
do.     The  next  that  throws  a  rock  gets  this!     Pull  your  guns,  boys!" 

But  Billy  Carew,  the  catcher  of  the  'Varsity  baseball  nine,  let  drive 
at  Cherokee  Charlie  very  much  as  if  throwing  to  second  base.  The 
crowd  heard  it  thump  against  Cherokee's  solid  shoulder. 

The  latter  wheeled  about,  shouted.  "Who  did  that?"  and  fired, 
shouting,  "Boys,  let  loose  at  these  devils!  Let  daylight  through  'em! 
There's  not  a  court  in  the  land  that  can  touch  us  now!" 

Purposely  Cherokee  Charlie  fired  high,  but  the  report  thrilled  like 
murder. 

"This  way,  gun  club,"  cried  a  clear  voice.  It  was  Shorty  Simmons, 
Captain  of  the  University  Gun  Team,  the  best  shot  in  college  and  a 
very  cool  man  in  a  tight  place.  "Two  can  play  at  that  game."  They 
had  stacked  their  guns  in  the  campus  for  a  joke;  now  they  were  going 
to  use  them. 

Just  then  came  a  sudden  scuffle  of  horses'  feet  and  the  clatter  of 
wheels.  It  was  the  four-in-hand  carrying  the  "Coterie  of  Western 
Beauties,"  and  it  came  straight  down  the  street,  gaining  speed  every 
second.  The  horses  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  run  away.  The 
crowd  was  scattering  right  and  left.  The  Western  beauties  were 
screaming.  The  coach  was  swaying  from  side  to  side;  the  women  were 
clinging  together.  "Good  Heavens!"  one  of  them  cried.  It  was 
Cherokee  Charlie's  wife.  He  turned  his  horse  and  tried  to  cut  in  and 
grab  the  leaders.    His  horse  veered  off. 

Out  from  the  campus  driveway  shot  a  long,  strong  runner..  It 
was  Jack  Stehman.     That  was  the  way  he  ran  on  the  football  field. 

He  was  making  one  of  his  famous  dives  through  the  air,  with  head 
tucked  in  between  his  shoulders.  The  leaders,  suddenly  seeing  him, 
veered  off  to  the  other  side,  as  some  half-backs  do  when  running  with 
the  ball.  The  Captain's  sure,  strong  arms  met  about  the  neck  of  the 
horse. 

"He's  got  'em!"  shrieked  some  shrill  voice.  "No,  they're  dragging 
him — they're  slacking — he's  stopping  them!     Down  they  go!    Lord!" 

The  leaders  had  fallen.  The  others  stumbled  over  them.  The 
coach  slacked  so  suddenly  that  the  rear  wheels  lifted  up,  came  down 
with  a  bang,  and  stopped.     But  Stehman  did  not  spring  up  as  he 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  125 

usually  did  after  making  one  of  his  brilliant  tackles.  The  whole 
University  came  crowding  down  the  street  toward  him. 

"Stand  back!  Give  him  air —  Will  you  fellows  keep  the 
crowd  back?  Here's  the  water!  You're  all  right  now,  aren't  you, 
Jack?" 

The  Captain  opened  his  eyes.  "Yep,"  he  said,  then  closed  tliem 
again  as  they  carried  him  to  the  drug  store. 

The  President  next  morning  in  chapel  spoke  on  the  subject  of  the 
highest  kind  of  bravery.  He  did  not  mention  any  names,  but — when 
senior  class  election  came  around  there  was  no  balloting  for  president. 
There  was  only  one  nominee,  and  the  election  was  unanimous  for 
Jack  Stehman. 


STORY   OF   A   KICKER. 


HOLMAN   F.   DAY. 


THERE  lived  two  frogs,  so  I've  been  told, 
In  a  quiet  wayside  pool; 
A.nd  one  of  those  frogs  was  a  blamed  bright  frog3 
But  the  other  frog  was  a  fool. 

Now  a  farmer  man  with  a  big  milk-can 

Was  wont  to  pass  that  way ; 
And  he  used  to  stop  and  add  a  drop 

Of  the  aqua  pura,  they  sa}^. 

And  it  chanced  one  morn  in  the  early  dawn 

When  the  farmer's  sight  was  dim, 
He  scooped  those  frogs  in  the  water  he  dipped, 

Which  same  was  a  joke  on  him. 

The  fool  frog  sank  in  the  swashing  tank, 

As  the  farmer  bumped  to  town, 
But  the  smart  frog  flew  like  a  tugboat  screw, 

And  he  swore  he'd  not  go  down. 


126  WERNER'S  READINGS 

So  he  kicked  and  splashed  and  he  slammed  and  trashed, 

And  he  kept  on  top  through  all; 
And  he  churned  that  milk  in  first-class  shape 

In  a  great  big  butter  ball. 

Now  when  the  milkman  got  to  town 

And  opened  the  can  there  lay 
The  fool  frog  drowned;  but,  hale  and  sound, 

The  kicker  he  hopped  away. 

MORAL. 

Don't  fret  your  life  with  needless  strife, 

Yet  let  this  teaching  stick. 
You'll  find,  old  man,  in  the  world's  big  can 

It  sometimes  pays  to  kick. 


MISS   ANGEL. 


ETTA   W.    PIERCE. 


IT  was  at  the  opera-house  I  first  saw  her,  on  a  grand  night,  when 
the  carriages  were  full  of  swell  folks,  and  the  show  at  the  dooi 
was  as  good  as  tother  inside. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  shiny  cloak  bordered  with  feathers,  and  where 
it  fell  back  her  gown  showed  shiny,  too;  and  her  brown  hair  curled 
about  her  face  bright  and  joyful  like.  Two  other  folks  were  with 
her— a  stout  lady  and  a  tall,  fair  dude. 

They  passed  so  close  that  I  heard  her  say,  "  This  is  the  very  happiest 
night  of  my  life.  "  And  the  tall  dude,  says  he,  "It  is  now  my  privilege, 
Edith,  to  see  that  you  are  always  happy."  And  then  they  vanished 
into  the  opera-house.  # 

"She's  one  of  the  angels  they  tell  about  at  the  mission,"  says  Tim 
who  was  standin'  near  me.     "That's  what  she  is,  Bobby!" 

When  we  had  sold  out  our  extras  we  sneaked  back  to  the  opera- 
house  door  to  see  the  show  Come  out. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  127 

Presently  that  girl  appeared  again,  but  with  another  man — a  fat, 
dark  party,  who  wore  a  blazing  stone  in  his  shirt-front  and  mustaches 
twisted  up  at  the  corners.  The  girl  looked  tired.  The  tall,  fair  dude 
followed  with  the  stout  lady,  and  he  was  as  sulky  as  a  wet  hen.  The 
others  got  into  the  carriage,  but  the  dude  stayed  on  the  pavement  and 
only  lifted  his  hat.  Tim  and  I  saw  the  girl  lean  and  offer  him  her 
violets.  They  were  withered,  but  he  took  them  and  raised  them 
to  his  lips. 

I  didn't  see  her  again  till  the  day  the  street-car  ran  over  Tim.  Her 
coupe  was  standing  near,  and  she  says,  "Oh,  let  me  try  to  help?" 
Her  dress  was  black  and  plain  and  her  face  thin,  and  all  the  bright- 
ness seemed  gone  out  of  it.  But  somehow  I  thought  her  lovelier  than 
ever.  The  breath  was  out  of  Tim,  but  she  roused  him  and  he  looked 
up  at  her. 

"Miss  Angel!"  says  he,  and  that  was  the  last  of  Tim. 

She  and  I  got  to  be  first-rate  friends,  and  I  never  lacked  food  nor 
fire  from  that  time  out.  She  was  everywhere  among  the  poor  of  the 
district,  but  she  got  paler  and  sadder  all  the  time. 

One  day  I  happened  upon  her  near  a  big  shop.  Some  smart  car- 
riages stood  near  the  curbstone — in  one  I  saw  the  stout  woman  who 
had  been  with  Miss  Angel  at  the  opera. 

"Is  this  a  protege  of  yours,  Edith?"  says  the  old  one,  and  she 
looked  at  me  as  if  I  was  dirt.  "My  dear  girl,  how  long  will  you  go 
on  with  your  slumming  and  your  charities?"  says  she.  "Do  you 
mean  to  renounce  the  world  just  because  your  engagement  with  Dacre 
is  off?     It  would  have  been  better  had  you  accepted  Colonel  Hay." 

That  same  day  I  saw  a  man  coming  down  the  steps  of  a  grand 
club-house  on  a  fashionable  street,  and  the  instant  I  clapped  eyes  on 
him  I  knew  the  dude  that  was  with  Miss  Angel  at  the  opera-house. 
I  made  after  him.  "Buy  a  paper,  sir?"  I  shouted,  but  he  wouldn't 
notice  till  I  brushed  hard  against  him.  Then  his  hand  went  up  to 
his  breast,  and  finding  no  loose  change,  he  pulled  out  a  pocketbcok. 
When  he  opened  it,  what  do  you  think  I  spied  ?  A  bunch  of  withered 
violets! 

The  next  day  there  was  snow,  and  the  rich  folks  were  sleighing  in 
the  park.     So  I  thought  if  I  went  that  way  I  might  catch  a  glimpse 


128  WERNERS  READINGS 

of  Miss  Angel.  At  the  proper  hour  I  took  a  place  on  a  bench  alongside 
one  of  the  main  drives  and  began  to  watch.  Someone  stole  softly 
up  to  me  and  plumped  down  on  the  seat  at  my  side. 

"For  whom  are  you  looking,  Bobby?" 

"For  you,  Miss  Angel,"  says  I,  and  I  came  near  letting  out  a  yell 
of  pure  joy.  She  hadn't  fairly  settled  herself  when  along  came  the 
fat  dark  man,  with  the  big  stone  in  his  shirt-front. 

"I  saw  you  from  afar,  Edith,"  says  he;  "pray,  allow  me."  And 
he  just  shoved  me  aside  and  sqiieezed  himself  down  beside  Miss  Angel. 
"I  am  so  delighted  to  see  you  again,  Edith,"  says  he;  "I  called  re- 
peatedly, but  your  servants  refused  to  admit  me." 

"They  obeyed  my  orders,"  says  Miss  Angel. 

"Ah,  Edith,  that  is  an  unkind  cut!"  says  he  "Was  I  not  your 
father's  friend  for  many  years?  Now  that  he  is  dead,  and  you  are 
left  a  prey  to  fortune-hunters,  you  need  me  greatly,  my  dear  child." 

"I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  any  need  of  you  whatever." 

"I  see  that  you  bear  me  some  grudge,"  says  he.  "Maybe  it  is 
about  Dacre.  Ah,  he  is  a  sad  dog — that  Dacre!  He  has  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  everything." 

"And  who  has  helped  Dacre  in  his  downward  way?"  says  Miss 
Angel. 

"  Well,  really,  I  don't  pretend  to  know,"  says  the  fat  man.  "  Some 
say  that  it  is  that  French  actress,  Bebe,  and  that  she  has  a  mysterious 
forest  bower  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city,  to  which  Dacre  makes  frequent 
pilgrimages.  I  have  reason  to  think  the  rumor  true.  Dacre  is  a  great 
favorite  with  your  sex.     Then  his  fast  male  companions — " 

"Stop!  Dacre's  closest  companion  has  been  yourself ,  Colonel  Hay. 
To  you  he  owes  his  financial  ruin.  As  for  the  other  charge,"  and  she 
grew  as  white  as  chalk,  "I  tell  you  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"My  dear  Edith,"  says  the  fat  man,  "are  you  not  a  little  unreason- 
able? To  be  sure,  Dacre  was  once  your  lover,  but  you  broke  the 
engagement  when  your  father  insisted  upon  it." 

"You  poisoned  my  father's  mind  against  Mr.  Dacre,"  says  she; 
"and,  being  ill,  he  believed  all  that  you  said." 

"  Edith,"  says  he,  "you  refuse  to  believe  in  his  little  errors?  Well, 
here  is  a  message  which  he  gave  me  to  wire  not  an  hour  ago." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  129 

He  thrust  a  paper  under  her  eyes  and  I  looked,  too. 
"I  sail  to-morrow  for  Australia,  to  begin  life  over  again.      I  must  take  Bebe 
with  me;    I  cannot  bear  to  leave  her.     Will  come  to-night." 

"There!"  says  Colonel  Hay. 

"Is  Mr.  Dacre  going  to  Australia?"  says  Miss  Angel. 

"Yes,"  says  he.  "I  have  obtained  a  situation  for  him  in  a  com- 
mercial house  in  Melbourne.  He  will  sail  in  the  morning.  I  have 
done  my  best  to  give  him  a  fresh  start  in  life;  and  if  you  ask  why, 
I  answer,  because  you  yet  preserve  an  interest  in  him,  Edith.  I  love 
you,  and  desire  to  make  you  happy.'" 

"You  have  said  enough!"  says  Miss  Angel.  "Leave  me  now, 
Colonel  Hay. " 

His  face  grew  black  as  thunder,  but  he  got  up  from  the  bench 
and  went  away.  Miss  Angel  sat  awhile  looking  down  at  the  ground; 
then  says  she: 

"Bobby,  if  you  had  a  friend  whom  you  had  loved  and  trusted  a 
long  time,  and  you  should  see  him  lying  very  low,  and  all  the  world 
against  him — tell  me,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Why,  lend  him  a  hand,  of  course,"  says  I. 

She  bent  and  kissed  me — heaven  and  earth!     Yes,  she  kissed  me  ! 

"You  clear,  dear  Bobby!"  says  she.  "I  don't  know  where  Mr. 
Dacre  can  be  found,  yet  I  must  send  him  a  token,  and  it  must  reach  him 
to-night." 

"I'll  take  it,"  says  I.  "According  to  that  fat  man,  he  must  be 
somewhere  in  the  city." 

She  opened  her  purse  and  took  out  a  ring,  engraved  with  some 
motto  that  I  couldn't  read.  She  wrapped  it  in  a  bank-note.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  am  a  damsel  in  distress,  Bobby,"  says  she.  "If  you  cannot 
help  me,  my  heart  will  break." 

You  bet  that  was  enough  lor  me. 

The  day  was  going  fast — I  knew  I  must  hustle.  I  began  to  look 
through  the  streets  and  squares.  I  chose  such  as  the  swell  folks  usually 
stroll  in.  I  went  up  and  clown,  and  at  last  I  spied  a  tall,  fair  man 
in  a  light  overcoat,  moving  away  at  a  good  gait. 

"That's  my  dude,  sure!"  says  I. 


130  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But  the  street  was  full  of  folks,  and  they  didn't  give  way  before 
a  little  chap  like  me.  One  old  duffer  nearly  knocked  my  eye  out  with 
his  elbow,  but  with  the  other  eye  I  made  out  that  my  tall,  fair  man 
was  just  crossing  the  street.     I  tore  after  him. 

There  was  ice  on  the  stones,  and  of  a  sudden  my  heels  flew  into 
the  air  and  I  found  myself  sprawling.  Some  team  that  was  coming 
up  at  a  round  pace  pounded  straight  "'over  me.  Lord!  That  was  a 
nasty  crunch!  A  cop  grabbed  me  up  and  carried  me  to  the  sidewalk. 
But  by  that  time  I  had  lost  my  man. 

"I  ain't  hurt,"  says  I,  "lemme  go!  I've  got  pressing  business." 
And  I  wriggled  free  and  was  off  again  like  a  pup  on  the  track  of  his 
master.  Somebody  cried  out,  "Why,  that  bey  is  crazy!"  But  I 
didn't  wait  to  explain. 

I  had  to  stop  in  a  doorway  to  wipe  the  blood  out  of  my  eyes  and 
while  I  was  pulling  myself  together,  I  remembered  the  message  that 
Colonel  Hay  had  shown  Miss  x\ngel. 

"If  Mr.  Dacre  is  going  to  visit  that  Bebe  to-night,"  thinks  I, 
"  what's  the  matter  with  looking  around  the  depots  ?" 

With  that  I  jumped  on  a  car  and  started  for  the  nearest  one.  It 
was  pretty  big.  On  one  track  a  train  was  ready  to  move  out.  I  saw 
people  with  grips  running  for  it,  and  heard  the  engine  snorting.  The 
train  panted  out.  As  it  went  a  tall  man  in  a  light  overcoat  whizzed 
by  me  like  a  shot,  and  made  a  leap  for  the  last  car.  I  grabbed  his 
coat-tails. 

"Stop,  sir!"  says  I,  "stop!" 

But  he  was  in  a  mighty  rush,  and  he  gave  me  a  back-handed  fling 
that  tumbled  me  heels  over  head  on  the  platform.  I  saw  a  million 
stars  in  a  minute.  By  the  help  of  a  trainman  he  caught  his  car,  and 
when  I  picked  myself  up  Mr.  Dacre  wasn't  anywhere  in  sight,  nor 
the  train  either.  I  went  to  the  ticket-office  and  asked  a  clerk  where 
the  tall  man  in  the  light  overcoat  was  going. 

"How  should  I  know,"  says  the  clerk. 

"But  I've  got  to  follow  that  gentleman,"  says  I, 

We  had  words,  but  I  didn't  budge.  Finally  he  flung  me  out  a 
ticket  for  Hemlock  Hollow,  and  said  the  next  train  would  leave  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  131 

Hemlock  Hollow  was  black  as  pitch  when  the  train  stopped  there 
I  was  the  only  passenger  that  got  off.  A  station-master  came  out  on 
the  platform  swinging  a  lantern.  I  asked  if  he'd  seen  a  young  gen 
in  a  light  overcoat.  He  concluded  he  remembered  such  a  party, 
because  he'd  hired  a  carriage  and  gone  away  on  the  swamp  road. 

I  made  off  as  fast  as  my  legs  could  carry  me.  The  weather  had 
turned  killing  cold. 

The  road  was  narrow,  with  high  bushes  on  both  sides.  Not  a 
house  was  in  sight.  The  wind  howled  and  the  tall  bushes  rattled 
ike  dry  bones  and  clutched  at  me  as  I  ran  under  'em.  Then  the 
trees  grew  thicker  and  blacker,  till  they  shut  out  all  the  light,  and  I 
couldn't  see  my  hand  before  me.  Says  I  to  myself:  "I  ain't  much 
stuck  on  country  air."  And  I  had  to  feel  for  Miss  Angel's  ring  in 
my  jacket  pocket,  or  I'd  have  taken  to  my  heels  and  gone  back  to  the 
railway  station. 

Well,  after  I'd  chased  over  a  hundred  miles  or  so,  I  saw  a  light. 
Sure  enough,  the  carriage  track  stopped  at  a  gate.  I  went  through  it 
and  up  to  a  small,  low  house.     I  rapped  on  the  door 

A  gray,  elderly  man  appeared. 

"Is  Mr.  Dacre  in  this  house?"  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  the  man. 

"I  want  to  see  him  bad,"  says  I. 

"Come  in,"  says  he;   "you  look  about  frozen,  my  boy." 

I  found  Mr.  Dacre  sitting  before  a  fire.  At  his  feet  a  big  mastiff 
la)r  sleeping  on  a  mat. 

"I'm  the  chap,"  says  I,  "that  caught  you  by  the  coat-tails  as  you 
was  jumping  on  the  train  to-night. 

"Why,  yes — the  very  boy!"  says  he. 

I  put  Miss  Angel's  ring  in  his  hand. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  says  he,  and  his  voice  was  amazing  queer. 

"Miss  Edith  sent  it  to  you,"  says  I. 

I  thought  he  was  going  crazy.  He  dragged  me  to  the  fire,  chafed 
my  hands,  pulled  the  shoes  off  my  frozen  feet,  and  the  man  that  had 
let  me  in  brought  snow  and  rubbed  on  my  ears,  that  were  stiff  as  stakes, 
and  the  big  dog  woke  on  the  mat,  and  rose,  with  a  growl  to  see  what 
was  going  on. 


132  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Keep  still,  Bebe!"  says  Mr.  Dacre,  and  when  I  heard  that  I 
thought  I'd  tumble  into  the  fire. 

Well,  the  two  men  brought  hot  coffee  and  a  dish  of  roasted  chicken, 
and  I  had  to  tell  Mr.  Dacre  everything. 

"Bobby,"  says  he,  "you  are  of  the  right  stuff!  The  nan  who 
lives  here  was  a  servant  of  my  dead  father,  and  this  dog  is  also  a  family 
relic.  I  am  particularly  fond  of  Bebe,  for  she  saved  my  life  when 
I  was  a  boy.  These  facts  were  well  known  to  my  good  friend,  Colonel 
Hay.    Now,  Bobby,  you  and  I  must  go  back  to  town  by  the  last  train." 

Well,  Mr.  Dacre  didn't  go  to  Australia — he  stayed  at  home  and 
married  Miss  Angel.  Colonel  Hay  wasn't  at  the  wedding — I  know, 
for  /  was  there,  and  looked  for  the  fat  man  everywhere.  But  he  didn't 
turn  up. 


A   STRANGE    PARENT. 


JAMES  NOEL   JOHNSON. 


I  DO  not  think  the  babe  so  sweet 
As  most  of  fathers  do; 
I  do  not  think  "it  can't  be  beat" 
Below  this  vault  of  blue. 

I  do  not  think  it's  from  the  skies 
Dropped  by  an  angel  choir; 

I  do  not  think  "  it  looks  so  wise," 
Or  has  a  cherub's  hair. 

I  do  not  think  it's  like  a  flake 

Of  downy,  rosy  snow! 
I  do  not  think  that  it  will  make 

"  A  heaven  here  below. " 

I  do  not  think  it  is  a  gem, 
Shaped  by  a  hand  divine. 

I  do  not  think  it  is — but  then — ■ 
But  then — it  isn't  mine! 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  133 


TWO    HOME-COMINGS. 


ANNIE   HAMILTON   DONNELL. 


T  was  one  of  Scarecrow's  poorest  days.  They  were  all  poor.  There 
were  seldom  many  errands  to  do,  and  never,  never  enough  to  eat. 
When  a  boy  is  only  ten,  and  lives  all  by  himself  in  the  dreariest  attic 
in  the  dreariest  tenement  in  the  very,  very  dreariest  alley  in  a  great 
city,  and  when  the  errands  fail — well,  is  it  any  wonder  a  boy  gets 
downhearted  ? 

Scarecrow  was  downhearted.  The  invalid  in  the  other  attic, 
across  the  bit  of  a  hallway,  had  not  heard  him  whistle  for  three  days. 
She  could  hardly  have  imagined  beforehand  how  she  would  miss  the 
shrill,  cheery  sound. 

"Poor  little  fellow,  he's  a-dreadin'  havin'  her  come  home.  No 
wonder  he  ain't  whistlin  !"  the  invalid  mused. 

Was  that  what  Scarecrow  was  dreading  ?  Or  was  it  something  else  ? 
There  were  so  many  things  to  dread.  He  crept  downstairs  again, 
and' out  through  the  noisome  alleyway,  to  a  corner  on  one  of  the  busy 
streets.  There  he  waited  on  listlessly.  It  was  almost  night  when  his 
good  luck  came. 

"  Errand,  mister  ?  Gotter  errand  fer  a  feller  ?  Kin  I  run  ?  Gimme 
a  try!     On'y  a  fiver  to  go  a  mile — dat's  de  bargain  price." 

"Eh,  eh,  what's  that?" 

The  figure  half  halted,  and  looked  down  absently  into  the  anxious 
face.     Then  it  went  on.     Scarecrow  ran  along  beside  it. 

"Gotter  errand,  mister — say?" 

" Oh,  you  want  a  job,  eh?     That's  it." 

"Yes,  sir — wot'll  yer  bet  I  does!  De  doctor  has  prescribed  a  dose 
er  vittles  fer  me  stummick.     Oh,  say,  mister,  mister!     Gimme  a  job!" 

"But  I  haven't  any  job — well,  well,  let's  see.  Come  with  me.  I 
suppose  you  might  run  on  ahead,  with  the  little  chap's  greens." 

At  a  florist's  up  the  street  he  bought  a  load  cf  trailing  green  vines 
and  cheap,  bright  flowers,  and  put  them  into  the  boy's  hands. 

"Take  them  to  Cham'ler  Street — one  hundred  and  seven.  Here's 
a  quarter.     Nov;  run!" 


134  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"I  ain't  got  no  change — I  runs  'em  fer  a  five." 

The  man  laughed  good  naturedly. 

"Well,  run  this  one  'fer'  a  quarter.  It's  worth  it — it  isn't  any 
common  errand,"  he  said.  And  his  face,  as  he  strode  away,  was 
radiant  with  a  sudden  joyful  remembrance.  No,  no,  this  was  no 
common  errand!     This  was  an  errand  out  of  a  hundred — a  thousand! 

All  at  once  Scarecrow  felt  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  again,  and 
another  silver  quarter  dropped  through  the  vines  into  the  small,  brown 
hand. 

"It's  worth  it.     Off  with  you!"     The  man  laughed. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  distrust  the  tattered  little  messenger.  He 
was  not  in  a  distrustful  mood. 

At  Chandler  Street,  107,  seemed  to  be  a  regular  illumination.  Scare- 
crow could  see  through  the  unshaded  windows  a  big,  bright  room,  that 
seemed  full  and  running  over  with  eager-faced  little  boys.  Tall  boys — 
short  boys — curly  boys — straight  boys — and  one  little  kilted  boy  who 
danced  wildly  about.  One,  two,  three — Scarecrow  counted  boys. 
There  were  six  of  them !     And  what  was  this  they  were  doing  ? 

"  W-e-1-c-o-m-e,"  he  spelled  slowly  to  himself,  as  one  by  one  the 
big  green  paper  letters  were  tacked  up  over  the  mantel  in  the  big,  bright 
room.  The  word,  complete,  meant  nothing  definite  to  Scarecrow. 
He  puzzled  over  it  curiously.  Then  he  knocked  loudly  at  the  door, 
beside  the  window.  A  troop  of  boys  answered  the  knock  with  a 
headlong  rush. 

"Oh,  oh!  it's  the  flowers!  Daddy's  sent  'em!  A  boy's  brought 
em!" 

"The  flowers  have  come!" 

"An'  the  smile-axel!" 

"They're  red  an'  pink  an'  yellow — an'  they  smell — my!" 

"Goody,  goody — hooray!" 

In  an  instant  little  Scarecrow's  arms  were  empty,  and  the  rush 
back  to  the  bright-lighted  room  had  begun.  Scarecrow  plucked  the 
sleeve  of  the  rear  boy  boldly,  and  whispered : 

"Say,  wot's  de  game?"  he  asked,  eagerly  "Wet's  dem  letters 
in  dere  spell  out?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  the  little  fellow  exclaimed  in  astonish- 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  135 

ment.  "They  spell  'Welcome,'  because  mother's  coming  home  to- 
morrow. To-morrow  morning — yes,  sir-ree !  They've  cured  her  at 
the  hospital,  and  she's  coming  home.  We've  got  pieces  to  speak,  and 
singing,  and  we're  going  to  drape  the  picture  with  vines  and  flowers. 
I  tell  you  there's  times,  when  your  mother  comes  home!" 

Little  Scarecrow  crept  away  in  the  darkness.  Even  the  bright 
silver  quarters  clinked,  unheard,  in  his  pocket. 

There  are  "times"  when  your  mother  comes  home.  That  is  what 
Scarecrow  was  thinking. 

Scarecrow's  mother  was  coming  home,  too,  to-morrow.  Had  they 
"cured"  her  at  that  great,  grim  hospital  for  sick  souls  over  there? 
All  at  once  Scarecrow  remembered  something.  She  was  coming  out 
weeks  earlier,  because  of  "good  behavior,"  they  said.  Scarecrow 
was  conscious  suddenly  of  being  proud  of  his  mother.  He  had  never 
been  proud  of  her  in  his  life  before. 

"Dey're  goin'  to  let  her  out- sooner  along  o'  her  behavin'  good," 
he  murmured,  a  little  glow  warming  his  thin,  brown  cheeks.  "  Oh, 
I  say,  mebbe" — his  voice  quavered  excited — "mebbe  dey'se  cured 
her!" 

But  there  would  be  no  green  and  flowers  or  "  Welcome"  on  the  wall. 
The  utter  contrast  smote  Scarecrow  like  a  dull  blow.  He  stopped 
in  the  street  and  sobbed  in  sudden  compassion.  There  would  be  no 
vines,  no  flowers,  no  singing — -no  anything — when  Scarecrow's  mother 
came  home.     That  other  mother  would  have  them  all. 

Then  the  silver  coins  clinked  remindingly.  They  bore  inspiration 
straight  from  the  tattered  pocket  of  despondent  Scarecrow  to  his  brain 
under  the  tattered  cap.  Fifty  cents  will  "  carry"  a  great  way  sometimes, 
and  it  was  Scarecrow's  trade  to  carry  things.  There  were  the  odds  and 
ends  of  greens  and  half- wilted  flowers  that  the  florist  let  him  have  cheap ; 
there  were  the  buns  and  sausages  and  the  tea — and  the  bit  of  sugar  and 
milk.  He  carried  them  all  home  to  the  attic  in  the  dreary  alley.  All 
the  way  upstairs,  flight  after  flight,  Scarecrow  whistled.  Across  the 
dark  hallway  the  invalid  woman  took  up  her  needle  again  and  smiled. 

"Maybe  she  ain't  comin'  home  after  all — then  I  don't  wonder 
he  feels  like  whistlin',"  she  thought.  "It's  dreadful  good  to  hear 
him  again!" 


136  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  little  attic  was  swept  and  polished  and  decorated  with  the 
treasures  from  the  florist's.  Scarecrow  got  up  at  the  first  ray  of  day- 
light to  do  it.  And  he  set  out  his  little  feast  on  the  tilting  old  table. 
Over  the  one  little  window  he  nailed  a  gigantic  W  that  he  had  fashioned 
patiently  out  of  shreds  of  green.  It  was  crooked  and  queer,  but  it 
was  a  W,  and  it  began  the  word  welcome. 

"1  wish  I  could  remember  de  way  de  other  letters  went,"  he  thought, 
standing  off  and  eyeing  the  solitary  letter  wistfully,  "but  I'll  tell  her 
wot  it  stan's  fer,  an'  how  she's  welcome  home  again,  an'  when  she 
comes  in  de  door  I'll  set  up  an'  whistle  loud.     Dat'll  be  de  singin'." 

It  was  midway  in  the  dull,  wet  morning  when  the  mother  of  little 
Scarecrow  came  home.  Sore-hearted  and  hopeless,  with  the  brand 
of  shame  on  her  forehead,  she  dragged  listlessly  up  the  stairs,  flight 
after  flight.     She  had  "been  good"  over  on  the  Island,  but  now — 

"I  say!" 

It  was  Scarecrow  on  the  upper  landing,  nodding  cheerfully.  His 
little  brown,  lean,  hungry  face  was  elate  with  pride. 

"  Yer  come  along  in  an'  look,  will  yer!"  he  cried,  exultantly,  hur- 
rying her  before  him.  "It  stan's  fer  'Welcome,'  see? — it's  de  first 
letter.  I  couldn't  spell  de  rest.  An'  de  flowers  an'  vines  an'  de  vittles — 
dey  all  stan's  fer  'Welcome.'" 

Then  the  boy's  lips  pursed  into  a  whistle,  and  the  whole  decorated 
little  attic  was  filled  with  shrill  music. 

A  moment  the  mother  gazed — for  a  moment  she  listened  uncom- 
prehendingly.  Then,  with  understanding,  arose  something  sweet  and 
warm  in  her  calloused  breast,  and  she  caught  little  whistling  Scarecrow 
in  her  arms.  The  music  stopped  when  she  kissed  him.  He  could 
never  remember  to  have  been  kissed  before,  and  the  prophecy  of  better 
things  was  in  the  strange,  warm  touch  on  his  lips.  The  faith  of  a  little 
child  and  the  love  of  a  mother  were  born  then,  and  the  squalid  little 
attic  blossomed  into  a  home. 


He. — If  I  were  not  in  a  canoe  I  would  kiss  you. 
She. — Take  me  ashore  instantly,  sir  ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  137 

1/ 
POE'S    "  RAVEN  "    IN   AN   ELEVATOR. 


CHARLES   BATTELL   LOOMIS. 


f  P^HE  reading  was  to  be  in  the  apartment  of  Mrs.  At  water,  who  had 
X  done  so  much  for  the  Sunshine  Day  Nursery,  and  had  sold  two 
hundred  dollars'  worth  of  tickets. 

Mrs.  Atwater  lives  on  the  fifth  floor  of  "The  Waterloo,"  and  one 
has  a  choice  of  ways  to  her  rooms.  For  those  who  are  fond  of  Alpine 
exercise  there  are  five  flights  of  stairs,  but  for  those  who  prefer  to  exer- 
cise in  other  ways  there  is  an  elevator.  If  there  had  been  no  elevator, 
there  would  have  been  no  story.  You  see,  the  elevator  was  put  in  at 
least  twenty  years  ago,  and  it  is  neither  so  swift  nor  so  accurate  as 
those  of  to-day. 

It  was  a  little  after  three-thirty  in  the  afternoon.  Most  of  the 
audience  had  assembled,  and  most  of  them  had  walked  up,  because 
it  was  one  of  the  elevator's  balky  days. 

But  it  was  not  only  the  elevator  that  was  causing  the  buzz  of  excite- 
ment in  Mrs.  Atwater's  parlors:  it  was  the  fact  that  the  reader  who  was 
to  entertain  the  assembled  audience  had  not  come. 

It  is  now  time  to  divulge  the  fact  that  I,  Bertram  Harland,  was  the 
reader,  and  although  I  am  generally  the  soul  of  punctuality  I  was  at 
half-past  three  nearly  a  mile  away  from  Mrs.  Atwater's  on  an  Elevated 
train  that  was  delayed.  But  at  last  the  train  pulled  into  my  station, 
and  I  raced  down  the  steps  and  made  my  way  through  slippery  streets 
to  "The  Waterloo." 

The  hall  man  who  opened  the  door  for  me  is  also  the  elevator  man, 
and  as  I  am  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  apartment  and  know  the  ways  of 
the  elevator  I  asked  if  it  was  running. 

"Creepin'  'd  be  better,"  was  his  answer.  "There's  a  reception 
upstairs,  an'  it  has  the  heaves." 

I  was  winded  by  my  hurry  from  the  station,  so  I  asked  him  to 
"creep  me  up,"  and  we  entered  the  cage  together  at  a  quarter  to  four. 

Up,  up,  up  we  went.  After  a  time  I  looked  out  at  the  landing  and 
discovered  that  we  were  passing  the  second  floor. 


138  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Slow  but  sure,"  said  I  to  the  attendant. 

"It's  slow,  all  right,  but  ye  can't  be  sure  till  ye'r  up,"  said  he. 

Then  I  heard  a  voice  from  above.     It  was  that  of  Mrs.  Atwater. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Harland?" 

"It  is  I.  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons.  I  was  detained  by  a  block 
on  the  Elevated." 

"  Oh !  I  thought  maybe  it  was  the  elevator  that  was  detaining  you. 
Every  one  is  here,  and  we're  only  waiting  for  you." 

"Well,  tell  them  that  I  am  in  the  building.  I'd  walk  up,  but  it 
would  put  me  out  of  breath.     Can't  read  when  I'm  out  of  breath." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater.  "Well,  I'm  awfully 
glad  you're  here.  Thought  something  dreadful  had  happened  to  you. 
I'll  go  in  and  announce  you." 

I  thought  it  a  trifle  premature,  for  we  were  only  passing  the  third 
floor;  however,  she  left  and  I  said  to  the  elevator  man:  "What  sort 
of  an  elevator  is  this  ?  " 

"A  highdrawlick,"  said  he,  as  if  it  were  spelled  that  way. 

I  told  him  I  thought  I  recognized  the  drawl  perfectly,  but  I  was 
somewhat  afraid  we  shouldn't  go  very  high.  "  She  seems  to  be  stopping 
now,"  said  I. 

Michael  coaxed  her,  and  at  last  we  passed  the  fourth  floor;  then, 
after  an  agony  of  suspense,  as  the  phrase  is,  I  saw  the  sign  "  Fifth  Floor." 

But  it  was  like  Moses's  view  of  the  Promised  Land — I  got  no  farther. 
The  elevator  bobbed  and  bumped  and  then  came  to  a  dead  stop,  like 
Mahomet's  coffin  mid  heaven  and  earth — or,  to  be  more  literal,  between 
the  fourth  and  fifth  floors. 

"What's  up?"  said  I. 

"Not  the  elevator,"  said  Michael  with  ill-timed  levity. 

"Water  given  out?" 

"No,  I'm  afear'd  somethin's  broke." 

"Well,  let  me  out,"  said  I,  picking  up  my  little  satchel  containing 
Shakespeare's  plays  and  the  poems  of  Tennyson,  Poe,  and  Browning — 
for  it  was  on  such  fare  that  I  was  to  regale  my  hearers. 

Michael  was  willing  enough.  He  took  my  umbrella,  and,  standing 
on  the  seat,  tried  to  reach  the  latch  of  the  door  above.  But  he  could 
not  do  it. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  139 

"Let  me  down,  and  I'll  go  out  at  the'fourth  floor." 

"Can't  do  that,  either,"  said  he.     "We're  caged  all  right." 

"That's  a  pretty  how-de-do.  I've  got  to  read  to  all  those  people 
up  there." 

This  plainly  interested  Michael,  and  having  nothing  else  to  do 
he  proceeded  to  question  me. 

"Is  it  rade  to  them?     What'll  you  rade  to  them  for?" 

"Because  they've  come  to  hear  me." 

"  And  can't  they  rade  for  themsilves  ?  Sure,  my  Nelly  is  only  eight, 
and  she  can  rade." 

He  was  plainly  surprised  that  in  this  enlightened  age  such  people 
as  he  had  seen  climb  the  stairs  needed  to  be  read  to.  While  he  was 
revolving  it  in  his  mind  Mrs.  At  water  came  into  the  hall  again. 

"  For  mercy  sakes  I     What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"We're  stuck.     I'm  afraid  I  can't  get  out." 

"Oh,  goodness,  but  you  must  come  out.  Michael,  can't  you 
squeeze  a  little  higher  and  let  Mr.  Harland  out?  It's  awfully  late, 
and  so  many  of  the  people  are  suburbanites,  and  they  are  fidgeting." 

Michael  now  seemed  to  realize  for  the  first  time  that  the  case  was 
important.  He  scratched  his  head  vigorously  and  finally  seemed  on 
the  point  of  saying  something,  when  there  came  a  voice  from  below. 

"Mike!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Stay  up  there.  There's  something  broke,  and  I've  telephoned 
for  a  man.     Don't  bring  her  down." 

"I  won't,"  said  Michael  with  a  wink  at  me. 

Mrs.  Atwater  had  come  down  to  the  half  landing.  "What  thall 
I  do,  Mr.  Harland  ?  All  the  tickets  are  bought  and  paid  for,  and  I 
hate  to  give  the  money  back,  because  the  Sunshine  Day  Nursery  needs 
it  so.     Could  you  give  the  reading  to-morrow?" 

"You  mean  if  I  get  out  in  time?  No;  I  go  West  to-morrow  to 
be  gone  until  the  end  of  the  season.  I  might  give  it  in  here,"  said 
I,  jokingly. 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  matter-of-fact  Mrs.  Atwater. 

But  I  could  hear  her  saying  in  her  earnest  voice:  "Mr.  Harland  is 
stuck  between  floors  on  that  miserable  elevator  and  he  can't  get  out. 


140  WERNER'S  READINGS 

How  many  are  willing  to  liste'n  to  him  in  the  hall?  All  those  in  favor 
of  it  will  please  signify  it  in  the  usual  manner." 

There  was  a  perfect  shout  of  "ayes." 

"Contrary  minded." 

There  were  a  few  feeble  "noes,"  but  the  question  was  carried,  and 
out  came  Mrs.  Atwater,  her  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  said:  "It's 
all  right.  They  can  sit  on  the  stairs  and  in  the  two  halls  and  they'll 
hear  you  perfectly  well." 

Something  seemed  to  strike  Michael  as  funny;  but  Mrs.  Atwater 
has  a  very  limited  sense  of  the  ridiculous. 

I  suppose  if  I  had  been  doing  it  merely  to  oblige  I  would  have 
refused,  but  the  seventy-five  dollars  that  was  to  become  mine  at  the 
end  of  the  reading  was — well,  let  those  who  can,  throw  seventy-five 
dollars  away.     I  have  never  formed  the  habit  of  doing  so. 

So  the  people  poured  out  with  camp-stools — most  of  them  women, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  girls,  and  here  and  there  a  man. 

It  took  them  some. minutes  to  get  seated,  and  then  they  had  to 
make  way  for  a  stout  man  who  lived  on  the  sixth  floor,  and  who  looked 
an  astonishment  that  was  too  deep  for  words  as  he  made  his  slow  way 
up  through  the  chattering  bevy  of  femininity. 

"Ladies  and — gentlemen,"  said  I,  "I  want  you  to  feel  that  this 
is  quite  informal.  Platforms,  pulpits,  and  soap-boxes,  but  never  an 
elevator  for  a  rostrum  in  all  my  experience,  and  yet  I've  had  my  share 
of  ups  and  downs." 

This  provoked  a  few  smiles  from  the  thoughtless,  and  having 
broken  what  ice  remained  unbroken  I  said :  "  Being,  as  it  were,  in  a 
cage,  there  will  be  a  certain  appropriateness  in  my  first  number,  Poe's 
'Raven.'  " 

There  was  a  kid-gloved  clapping  of  hands,  a  unanimous  squeak 
of  camp-stools,  and  then  I  began,  while  Michael  sat  at  my  side  and 
stared  at  me: 

"'Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping '  " 

(Voice  from  main  hall:     "Mike,  what  are  you  doing  up  there?") 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  141 

This  was  followed  by  the  ringing  of  the  elevator  bell  and  giggles 
from  some  of  the  younger  women. 

Michael  (in  a  whisper):  "I'd  like  to  answer  him,  sir;  that's  Mr. 
Hunt,  the  agent." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  I. 

"Mr.  Hunt,"  said  Michael,  calling  down  the  shaft,  "we're  stuck 
between  the  fourt'  and  fift'  floors,  and  a  gentleman  is  radin'  to  the 
people." 

"What's  that?"  came  back  in  stentorian  tones.  Michael  repeated 
his  information,  and  then  we  heard  a  heavy  tread  and  Mr.  Hunt  came 
up.  I  never  shall  forget  the  expression  of  his  face  when  he  saw  the 
crowd  of  women  sitting  in  the  halls  and  on  the  stairs. 

"What  in — time  is  the  matter?" 

I  should  have  liked  to  sink  down  the  shaft, — in  the  elevator, — but 
Mrs.  Atwater  explained  to  him  in  her  tense,  important  way  that  the 
reading  had  been  booked  for  that  hour  in  aid  of  the  Sunshine  Day 
Nursery,  and  that  as  Mahomet  couldn't  ccms  to  the  mountain  the 
mountain  had  come  to  Mahomet. 

"Well,  I'll  be  s wiggled,"  was  all  that  Mr.  Hunt  said. 

I  sat  down  beside  Michael  and  idly  fingered  the  pretty  volume  of 
Poe's  poems. 

"I  think  you'd  better  begin  again,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater  smiling 
sweetly  at  me,  "  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  any  more  interruptions, 
now  that  Mr.  Hunt  knows  what's  the  matter." 

I  was  not  so  sure  of  that,  for  I  heard  hammering  in  the  basement 
and  judged  that  the  machinists  had  come. 

I  began  again  and  read  along  swimmingly  for  several  verses. 
Although  it  is  highly  improbable  that  Michael  understood  the  meaning 
of  the  poem,  he  was  alive  to  the  rhythm  of  the  thing,  for  he  kept  audible 
time  with  his  heavy  foot  until  I  brought  one  of  mine  down  on  it 
with  decision,  and  then  he  stopped,  while  I  went  on: 

"'Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering,  fearing '" 

"Wishing  that  the  door  they'd  ope  and  let  me  out  upon  the  floor." 
This  interpolated  line,  as  I  afterward  learned,  came  from  a  young 


142  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Harvard  man  who  was  home  for  the  Easter  vacation.     However,  I 
affected  not  to  hear  him  and  went  on: 

"'Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken '" 

Only  it  wasn't,  for  here  a  voice  from  'way  below  called  out:  " Mike, 
where's  that  monkey-wrench?" 

"Oh,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  will  ye  never  stop?  Kin  I  answer 
him,  sir?" 

"Yes,  answer  him,  Michael." 

"Be  the  furnace  door,  I  told  ye  before.  Shut  up.  A  gentleman's 
radin'  a  story  to  me." 

"Chase  yerself,"  was  the  derisive  message  from  below,  and  then 
I  cut  in  with: 

'"And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,  "Lenore?"'" 

Suddenly  the  impossibility  of  the  whole  thing  came  over  me  and 
I  looked  appealingly  at  Mrs.  Atwater,  hoping  that  she  would  relieve 
me;  but  she  was  evidently  for  seeing  the  thing  through  to  its  end,  so 
I  continued  : 

"'This  I  whispered '" 

"Did  you  say  the  wrench  was  by  the  furnace  door?" 

This  chimed  so  perfectly  with  the  rhythm  that  every  one  noticed 
it,  and  I  could  hear  the  young  collegian  chuckling  in  his  room;  but 
now  I  was  angry  and  determined  to  go  on,  no  matter  what  happened. 

"'This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word,  "Lenore:" 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more.'" 

As  if  to  give  me  the  lie  at  this  juncture  a  noise  like  that  of  a  newly 
opened  boiler  factory  came  up  the  shaft.  The  workmen  were  ham- 
mering on  metal  of  some  kind,  and  the  din  came  to  us  as  if  our  ears 
were  at  a  speaking-tube.     Hammer !  hammer !  hammer ! 

One  line  was  rendered  inaudible,  so  I  shouted  the  next: 
"'Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before.'" 

This  was  too  much  even  for  Mrs.  Atwater,  and  she  dissolved  in 
smiles  behind  her  fan.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  audience,  they  repre^ 
sented  every  form  of  laugh. 


AND  RECITATIONS   NO.  37.  143 

"Mrs.  Atwater,"  said  I,  "this  has  degenerated  into  a  farce  and 
is  no  longer  a  reading.  I  simply  can't  do  anything  more  until  we 
are  released  from  this.     Do  you  suppose  we  ever  shall  get  out  of  here?" 

" ' Quoth  the  raven,  " Nevermore.  " '"     (This  from  the  collegian.) 

But  at  this  moment  there  was  a  cry  from  below:  "All  right  up 
there."  And  Michael,  pulling  the  wire  cable,  we  began  to  ascend, 
and  a  minute  later  I  stepped  out  upon  the  fifth  floor.  I  was  followed 
by  my  audience,  excepting  Michael,  who  went  to  the  regions  below. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Atwater,"  I  said,  "we  will  continue  the  reading 
without   further   interruptions." 

When  I  left  the  apartments  an  hour  later  I  walked  down  the  stairs. 
An  elevator  can  depress  as  well  as  elevate. 


A   BOY'S   THANKSGIVING. 


LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD. 


OVER  the  river  and  through  the  wood 
To  grandfather's  house  we  go ; 
The  horse  knows  the  way  to  carry  the  sleigh 
Through  the  white  and  drifted  snow. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood! 

Oh,  how  the  wind  does  blow! 
3t  stings  the  toes  and  bites  the  nose 

As  over  the  ground  we  go. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood, 
And  straight  through  the  barnyard  gate, 

We  seem  to  go  extremely  slow; 
It  is  so  hard  to  wait! 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood ! 

Now  grandmother's  cap  I  spy ! 
Hurrah  for  the  fun !     Is  the  pudding  done  ? 

Hurrah  for  the  pumpkin  pie ! 


144  WERNER'S  READINGS 

| 

THE    LOUIS    D'OR. 


WHEN  Lucien  de  Hem  saw  his  last  bill  for  a  hundred  francs 
clawed  by  the  banker's  rake;  when  he  rose  from  the  roulette- 
table  where  he  had  just  lost  the  debris  of  his  little  fortune,  scraped 
together  for  this  supreme  battle,  he  experienced  something  like  vertigo, 
and  thought  that  he  should  fall.  His  brain  was  muddled;  his  legs 
were  limp  and  trembling.  He  threw  himself  upon  the  leather  lounge 
that  circumscribed  the  gambling-table.  For  a  few  minutes  he  mechan- 
ically followed  the  clandestine  proceedings  of  that  hell  in  which  he  had 
sullied  the  best  years  of  his  youth ;  recognized  the  worn  profiles  of  the 
gamblers  under  the  merciless  glare  of  the  three  great  shadeless  lamps; 
listened  to  the  clicking  and  the  sliding  of  the  gold  over  the  felt ;  realized 
that  he  was  bankrupt,  lost;  remembered  that  in  the  top  drawer  of 
his  dressing-table  lay  a  pair  of  pistols — the  very  pistols  of  which 
General  de  Hem,  his  father,  had  made  noble  use  at  the  attack  of 
Zaatcha;  then,  overcome  by  exhaustion,  he  sank  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  his  mouth  was  clammy  and  his  tongue  stuck  to 
his  palate.  He  realized  by  a  hasty  glance  at  the  clock  that  he  had 
scarcely  slept  a  half-hour,  and  he  felt  the  imperious  necessity  of  going 
out  to  get  a  breath  of  the  fresh  night  air.  The  hands  on  the  dial  pointed 
exactly  to  a  quarter  to  twelve.  As  he  rose  and  stretched  his  arms,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  Christmas  Eve.  Just  then  old  Dronski 
came  up  to  Lucien  muttering  something  behind  his  dirty  grayish  beard. 

"Lend  me  five  francs,  will  you,  Monsieur?  I  haven't  stirred 
from  this  place  for  two  days,  and  for  two  whole  days  seventeen  hasn't 
come  out  once.  You  may  laugh  at  me  all  you  like,  but  I'll  bet  you 
my  fist  that  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  seventeen  will  be  the  win- 
ning number." 

Lucien  de  Hem  shrugged  his  shoulders;  and,  fumbling  through 
his  pockets,  he  found  that  he  had  not  even  money  enough  to  comply 
ivith  that  feature  of  gambling  etiquette  known  among  the  frequenters 
of  the  establishment  as  "Pole's  hundred  cents."  He  passed  into  the 
antechamber,  put  on  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  disappeared  down  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  145 

narrow  stairway  with  the  agility  of  people  who  have  a  fever.  During 
the  four  hours  that  Lucien  had  spent  in  the  den  it  had  snowed  heavily; 
and  the  street,  one  of  those  wedges  between  two  rows  of  high  buildings 
in  the  very  heart  of  Paris,  was  intensely  white.  Above,  in  the  calm 
blue-black  of  the  sky,  cold  stars  glittered.  The  exhausted  gambler 
shivered  under  his  furs,  and  hurried  along  with  a  blank  despair  in  his 
heart,  thinking  of  the  pistols  that  awaited  him  in  the  top  drawer  of 
his  dressing-table.  He  had  gone  a  hundred  feet  when  he  stopped 
suddenly  before  a  heartrending  spectacle. 

On  a  stone  bench,  near  the  monumental  doorway  of  a  wealthy 
residence,  sat  a  little  girl,  six  or  seven  years  old,  barely  covered  by  a 
ragged  gown.  She  had  fallen  asleep  there  in  spite  of  the  bitter  cold, 
her  body  bent  forward  in  a  pitiful  posture  of  resigned  exhaustion. 
Her  poor  little  head  and  her  dainty  shoulder  had  moulded  themselves 
into  the  angle  of  the  freezing  wall.  One  of  her  worn  slippers  had 
fallen  from  her  dangling  foot  and  lay  in  the  snow  before  her.  Lucien 
de  Hem  mechanically  thrust  his  hand  into  his  vest-pocket,  but  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  even  been  able  to  fee  the  club-waiter.  He 
went  up  to  the  child,  however,  impelled  by  an  instinct  of  pity,  when 
suddenly  he  saw  something  glitter  in  the  little  slipper  at  his  feet.  He 
stooped.     It  was  a  louis  d'or. 

Some  charitable  woman  had  passed  there,  and  at  the  pathetic  sight 
of  the  little  shoe  in  the  snow  had  remembered  the  poetic  Christmas 
legend,  and  with  discreet  fingers  had  dropped  a  splendid  gift,  so  that 
the  forsaken  little  one  might  still  believe  in  the  presents  of  the  Christ 
Child,  and  might  awake  with  renewed  faith  in  the  midst  of  her  misery. 

A  gold  louis.  That  meant  many  days  of  rest  and  comfort  to  the 
little  beggar.  Lucien  was  just  about  to  awaken  her  and  surprise  her 
with  her  good  fortune,  when  in  a  strange  hallucination  he  heard  a 
voice  in  his  ear,  which  whispered  with  the  drawling  inflection  of  the 
old  Pole:  "I  haven't  stirred  from  this  place  for  two  days,  and  for  two 
whole  days  seventeen  hasn't  come  out  once.  You  may  laugh  at  me 
all  you  like,  but  I'll  bet  you  my  fist  that  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve, 
seventeen  will  be  the  winning  number." 

Then  this  youth,  who  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  the  descendant 
of  a  race  of  honest  men — this  youth  who  bore  a  greai  military  name, 


146  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  had  never  been  guilty  of  an  unmanly  act — conceived  a  monstrous 
thought;  an  insane  desire  tcok  possession  of  him.  He  looked  anxiously 
up  and  down  the  street,  and  having  assured  himself  that  he  had  no 
witness,  he  knelt,  and  reached  out  cautiously  with  trembling  fingers, 
stole  the  treasure  from  the  little  shoe,  then  rose  with  a  spring  and  ran 
breathlessly  down  the  street.  He  rushed  like  a  madman  up  the  stairs 
of  the  gambling-house,  flung  open  the  door  with  his  fist,  and  burst 
into  the  rooms  at  the  first  stroke  of  midnight.  He  threw  the  gold  on 
the  table  and  cried: 

"Seventeen!" 

Seventeen  won.  He  then  pushed  the  whole  pile  on  the  "red." 
The  red  won.  He  left  the  seventy-two  louis  on  the  same  color.  The 
red  came  out  again.  He  doubled  the  stakes,  twice,  three  times,  and 
always  with  the  same  success.  Before  him  was  a  huge  pile  of  gold 
and  bank-notes.  He  tried  the  "twelve,"  the  "column" — he  worked 
every  combination.  His  luck  was  something  unheard  of,  something 
almost  supernatural.  One  might  have  believed  that  the  little  ivory 
ball,  in  its  frenzied  dance  around  the  table,  had  been  bewitched,  mag- 
netized, by  this  feverish  gambler,  and  obeyed  his  will.  With  a  few 
bold  strokes  he  had  won  back  the  bundle  of  bank-notes  which  he  had 
lost  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening.  Then  he  staked  two  or  three 
hundred  louis  at  a  time,  and,  as  his  fantastic  luck  never  failed  him, 
he  soon  won  back  the  whole  capital  that  had  constituted  his  inherited 
fortune. 

In  his  haste  to  begin  the  game  he  had  not  even  thought  of  taking 
off  his  fur-lined  coat,  the  great  pockets  of  which  were  now  swollen 
with  the  rolls  of  bank-notes  and  heavy  with  the  weight  of  the  gold. 
Everything  became  a  recipient.  And  still  he  played  and  still  he  won. 
But,  withal,  there  was  a  gnawing  at  his  heart,  something  that  felt 
like  a  red-hot  iron  there,  and  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  vision  of 
the  child  asleep  in  the  snow — the  child  he  had  robbed. 

"In  just  a  few  minutes,"  said  he,  "I  will  go  back  to  her.  She 
must  be  there  in  the  same  place.  Of  course  she  must  be  there.  I 
will  make  it  right  to  her — it  will  be  no  crime.  When  the  clock  strikes 
again  I  will  stop,  I  will  go  straight  to  where  she  is,  I  will  take  her 
up  in  my  arms  and  will  carry  her  home  with  me  asleep.     I  have  done 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  147 

her  no  harm ;  I  have  made  a  fortune  for  her.  I  will  keep  her  with  me 
and  I  will  educate  her;  I  will  love  her  as  I  would  a  child  of  my  own, 
and  I  will  take  care  of  her, —always,  as  long  as  she  lives!" 

But  the  clock  struck  one,  a  quarter  past,  half-past,  and  Lucien  was 
still  there.  Finally,  a  few  minutes  before  two  the  man  opposite  him 
rose  brusquely,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice: 

"The  bank  is  broken,  gentlemen;  this  will  do  to-night." 

Lucien  started  and  wedged  his  way  brutally  through  the  group 
of  gamblers,  who  pressed  around  him  in  envious  admiration,  hurried 
out  into  the  street  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  toward  the  stone  bench. 
In  a  moment  he  saw  by  the  light  of  the  gas  that  the  child  was  still 
there.  "God  be  praised!"  said  he,  and  his  heart  gave  a  great  throb  of 
joy.  Yes,  here  she  was!  He  took  her  little  hand  in  his.  Poor  little 
hand,  how  cold  it  was!  He  caught  her  under  the  arms  and  lifted  her. 
Her  head  fell  back,  but  she  did  not  wake.  He  pressed  her  close  to  his 
breast  to  warm  her,  and  with  a  vague  presentment  he  tried  to  rouse 
her  from  this  heavy  sleep  by  kissing  her  eyelids.  But  he  realized  then 
with  horror  that  the  child's  eyes  were  dull,  glassy,  fixed.  He  put  his 
lips  to  the  child's  mouth;  he  felt  no  breath. 

While  Lucien  had  been  building  a  fortune  with  the  louis  stolen 
from  this  little  one,  she,  homeless  and  forsaken,  had  perished  with 
cold. 

Lucien  felt  a  suffocating  knot  at  his  throat.  In  his  anguish  he 
tried  to  cry  out;  and  in  the  effort  which  he  made  he  awoke  from  his 
nightmare,  and  found  himself  on  the  leather  lounge  in  the  gambling- 
room,  where  he  had  fallen  asleep  a  little  before  midnight.  The  garcon 
of  the  den  had  gone  home  about  five  o'clock,  and  out  of  pity  had  not 
awakened  him. 

A  misty  December  dawn  made  the  window-panes  pale.  Lucien 
went  out,  pawned  his  watch,  took  a  bath,  then  went  over  to  the  Bureau 
of  Recruits,  and  enlisted  as  a  volunteer  in  the  First  Regiment  of  the 
Chasseurs  d'  Afrique. 

Lucien  de  Hem  is  now  a  lieutenant.  He  has  not  a  cent  m  the 
world  but  his  pay.  He  manages  to  make  that  do,  however,  for  he  is  a 
steady  officer,  and  never  touches  a  card.     He  even  contrives  to  econo- 


148  WERNER'S  READINGS 

mize,  it  would  seem;  for  a  few  days  ago  a  comrade,  who  was  following 
him  up  one  of  the  steep  streets  of  the  Kasba,  saw  him  stop  to  lay  a 
piece  of  money  in  the  lap  of  a  little  Spanish  girl  who  had  fallen  asleep 
in  a  doorway.  His  comrade  was  startled  at  the  poor  lieutenant's 
generosity,  for  this  piece  of  money  was  a  gold  louis. 


THE   OLD   APPLE  TREE. 


H.  COYLE. 


HERE'S  the  old  apple  tree,  where  in  boyhood  I  sported, 
When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  the  blossoms  it  bore; 
Where  my  old  maiden  aunt  by  the  parson  was  courted, 
In  her  prim  cap  and  gown  such  as  ladies  then  wore. 

On  this  rude  oaken  bench,  'neath  bending  boughs  seated, 
While  the  wild  bee  was  humming  its  song  in  the  tree, 

There  we  children  oft-times  by  our  elders  were  treated 
To  share  with  their  gossip  some  cakes  and  weak  tea. 

Look !  here  are  the  names  of  the  many  now  sleeping, 
Of  dear  parents  and  kindred  long  gone  to  the  tomb ; 

The  old  apple  tree,  like  a  true  friend,  is  heaping 
The  oak  bench  they  sat  on  with  beauty  and  bloom. 

In  the  glad  days  of  spring,  when  the  spirit  rejoices, 
Where  the  old  apple  tree  looks  as  gay  as  a  bride, 

I  could  dream  that  I  heard  every  one  of  the  voices 
Of  the  friends  who  sat  here  on  the  bench  at  my  side. 

Every  rudely  carved  name  has  a  story  to  tell  me — 
And  that  true  lover's  knot,  I  remember  it  well; 

It  was  carved  on  the  day  when  my  first  grief  befell  me, 
The  day  of  my  parting  from  sweet  Isabel. 

Oh,  the  old  apple  tree,  where  in  boyhood  I  sported, 
And  the  rude  oaken  bench,  they  are  still  in  their  place; 

But  the  dear  household  faces  whose  welcome  I  courted, 
They  have  vanished  and  left  me  the  last  in  the  race. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  149 

THE   STRANDED  SHIP. 

L.   CLARKE   DAVIS. 


THE  hero  of  our  story,  Luke  Conner,  was  an  outcast  from  society. 
When  he  was  graduated  from  Harvard  at  the  head  of  his  class 
seven  years  before,  all  blessings  of  life  seemed  his — abundant  means, 
superb  physical  health,  and  hosts  of  friends.  But  the  very  night  of 
the  commencement  a  letter  was  handed  him,  telling  him  that  his 
sister,  the  last  of  his  kin,  was  lying  dead  in  their  home;  had  died  con- 
fessing an  awful  wrong  and  shame,  and  the  man,  who  had  wrought 
this  wrong,  was  his  friend,  his  classmate  here,  his  old  school  and  play- 
fellow at  home.     That  was  the  bitter  part  of  it  all — his  friend ! 

Stunned,  maddened  by  the  shock,  he  pursued  and  killed  the  man, 
and  then  gave  himself  up  to  justice,  expecting  and  desiring  death; 
but  the  jury  acquitted  him  and  he  left  the  country. 

After  remaining  abroad  several  years,  he  returned  and  is  spending 
a  few  weeks  on  the  Jersey  coast.  Here  he  meets  Professor  Daunton, 
one  of  his  college  professors,  who  is  there  with  his  sister.  A  strong 
attachment  .springs  up  between  Conner  and  Margaret  Daunton,  and 
the  Professor  is  much  troubled;  he  cannot  bear  that  his  darling  sister 
shall  marry  a  murderer,  yet  how  can  he  ruin  the  young  man  by  telling 
his  sad  story? 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that,  at  the  breaking  of  the  day 
the  guests  at  the  old  farmhouse  were  awakened  from  sleep  by  the 
discharge  of  a  solitary  gun,  so  near  and  distinct  that  it  startled  the 
sleepers  from  their  beds.  It  was  followed  by  a  second  report,  and 
by  others.  There  was  hurried  dressing  and  a  quick  tramp  to  the  sea, 
for  the  slow-booming  guns  told  of  a  wreck. 

Professor  Daunton  and  Margaret  hurried  on  with  the  rest.  They 
got  down  in  time  to  see  the  men  and  horses  thundering  along  the  hard 
beach,  with  the  life-boats  on  their  rough  carriages  surrounded  by  the 
yelling  wreckers,  grim,  and  alert  like  artillerymen  hurrying  to  the 
front,  full  of  the  fire  and  bravery  of  the  battle.  The  horses  flew  along 
untouched  by  whip  or  goad,  as  if  they  knew  the  necessity  for  speed; 
but  when  they  arrived  opposite  to  the  stranded  wreck,  against  which 


150  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  waves  thumped  mercilessly,  there  fell  a  dead  silence  among  them 
all,  they  looked  toward  the  monster  wreck,  and  then  into  one  another's 
faces,  hopeless,  dismayed. 

It  was  no  use.  No  boat  could  live  in  such  a  sea.  It  was  an  emigrant 
ship  from  Liverpool,  and  about  her  decks  and  lower  rigging  clung  her 
helpless  doomed  passengers  and  crew,  as  thick  as  bees  about  the  hive. 

Captain  Brown  stood  apart  from  his  men  talking  to  the  Professor 
and  Margaret.  "Is  there  no  help  for  these  poor  people,  Captain 
Brown?"  she  asked.  "Surely,  you  can  do  something,  Do  not  let 
them  go  down  into  the  sea  before  our  eyes  without  making  a  single 
effort,  Captain!" 

"It's  no  use,  Margaret,  she's  doomed,  that  ship  is,  and  she'll  go 
down  before  our  eyes,  and  we  can't  help  'em." 

"I  am  not  a  strong  man,  Captain  Brown,"  said  the  Professor 
slowly,  "  but  I  was  accounted  a  good  stroke  once  in  the  Cambridge 
crew,  and  I  should  like  to  make  one  of  a  party  to  attempt  the  rescue 
of  those  people." 

"  You  would — you?  Then  by  the  good  Lord,  Professor,  I'll  make 
another.  Hello  men!  Who'll  volunteer  to  go  out  there  with  a  line 
to  that  ship?  It's  a  desprit  service,  but  Professor  Daunton  is  going 
an'  I'm  going;   an'  now  who  else'll  go? 

"Good  for  you,  Bill  Shadrack!  Good  for  you,  Tom  Hemphill; 
you're  men,  you  are.  Now,  some  more  of  you  as  has'nt  got  anybody 
at  home.     Who's  the  next  man  to  go  into  the  boat?" 

Two  others  instantly  volunteered,  and,  despite  the  cries  of  children 
and  wives,  the  men  leaped  into  the  boat;  and  each  one,  with  a  last 
look  shoreward,  quietly  poised  his  oar  in  the  air,  stiffened  himself  in 
his  place,  and  sat  solemnly  watching  the  mountainous  wave  over 
which  he  was  to  be  hurled.  Half  a  hundred  brawny  hands  seized  the 
boat  and  tried  to  launch  her,  unsuccessfully  at  first,  but  on  the  fourth 
trial  she  plunged  into  the  breakers,  and  in  the  next  moment  was  thrown 
high  and  dry  upon  the  beach,  smashed  like  an  egg-shell;  her  crew 
of  six  all  safe,  but  a  good  deal  bruised  and  hurt. 

"I  told  you  it  was  no  use,  Professor,"  the  Captain  said.  "I  know 
a  sea  when  I  see  it,  and  I  knowed  no  boat  could  live  a  minute  out 
there." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  151 

"God  help  them  all,  for  only  He  can  now,"  and  the  Professor 
turned  away  sick  at  heart. 

5j»  3|C  5j»  *!»  5j£  n*  *P  *P 

"What  chance,  Captain?" 

It  was  a  pleasant  voice  that  had  asked  the  question.  The  old 
wrecker  looked  up  at  the  gigantic  figure  of  the  speaker  on  horseback. 

"Captain  Conner,  there  is  no  chance  for  them  poor  souls  on  that 
wreck.     Only  God  and  a  miracle  will  ever  let  them  see  home  again." 

"Only  God  and  a  miracle?" 

"Yes— jest  that." 

"Have  you  tried  the  boat?" 

"Does  that  look  as  if  we  had  tried  the  boat?"  and  the  old  wrecker 
pointed  to  where  the  shattered  fragments  lay  strewn  about  the  beach. 

"Very  much  like  it,  Captain  Brown;  but  are  there  no  more  volun- 
teers?"    Without  waiting  for  answer  he  rode  down  to  the  wreckers. 

"  My  men,  you  know  me,  you  know  that  I  can  make  my  offer  good ; 
I  will  give  a  thousand  dollars  to  every  man  who  lends  a  hand  to  carry 
a  line  to  that  ship!" 

A  dead  silence  among  the  men  and  dark  scowls  among  the  women. 
"What,  no  answer?  You  want  more?  Well,  you  shall  have  it. 
Any  six  of  you  stand  out  there  and  name  your  price;  don't  be  afraid." 
No  man  stirred;  the  women  crept  closer  to  their  husbands,  glaring 
savagely  at  Conner. 

"You  won't  go?  Then  let  one  man  alone  swim  to  that  ship  and 
he  shall  be  the  owner  of  Captain  Brown's  sea-farm.  I  will  give  it 
out  and  out  to  the  man  who  swims  to  that  ship."     Still  no  answer. 

"Why,  you  cowards,  are  you  afraid  of  a  bit  of  dirty  water,  or  of 
some  salt  spray  washing  over  you?     Will  nothing  tempt  you?" 

"We  are  not  cowards,  Captain  Conner,  but  no  boat  can  live  out 
there;    it  has  been  tried,"  a  wrecker  said  doggedly. 

"Try  it  again,  you  cowards;  you  have  been  upon  the  sea  all  your 
miserable  lives,  and  yet  not  a  man  of  you  will  stir." 

The  bitter  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  a  gaunt  old  fishwife, 
her  arms  bare  to  the  shoulders,  her  face  as  brown  as  the  dead  kelp, 
seized  his  bridle,  and  with  a  quick  jerk  threw  his  horse  back  upon 
his  haunches. 


152  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Cowards  are  we,"  she  cried,  "then  what  are  you?  What  are 
you  coming  here  to  tempt  to  their  certain  death  these  men  with  children 
and  wives?  Why  don't  you  go  yourself?  What  is  your  dirty  money 
to  you?  You  never  worked  for  it,  no,  not  a  penny  of  it.  You  never 
worked  in  storm  and  sleet,  in  hail  and  snow,  for  a  dollar  a  day  at 
saving  human  lives.  Go  carry  a  line  to  the  ship  yourself,  and  save 
your  filthy  bribes,  you  murderer,  and  earn  the  right  to  call  our  sons 
and  husbands  cowards.     Go  yourself!" 

When  the  word  "murderer"  escaped  her  lips,  his  cheeks  blanched 
and  he  grew  dizzy  for  a  moment,  but  recovering  himself,  he  leaned 
forward  in  his  saddle. 

"  My  friends,  I  was  wrong,  and  the  good  wife  is  right.  I  will  carry 
a  line  to  the  ship." 

The  old  woman  stared  hard  into  the  man's  face;  but  something 
she  saw  in  the  calm  solemn  eyes  of  Luke  Conner  told  her  that  he  meant 
to  do  it,  and  it  chilled  the  blood  in  her  heart. 

"You,"  she  cried,  "you  carry  a  line  to  yon  poor  wretches!  It 
can't  be  done,  Captain  Luke,  it  can't  be  done,  I  tell  you.  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  rough  an'  make  you  do  a  mad  thing  like  that.  You  can't  save 
'em,  Captain  Luke!     Only  God  can  do  that." 

"Then,  under  God,  I  will  do  it." 

She  turned  fiercely  upon  the  wreckers.  They  liked  this  young 
fellow  who  threw  his  money  around  among  them  so  lavishly  and  was 
a  "hail  fellow  well  met"  with  the  humblest  of  them  all. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  let  him  throw  his  life  away  before  your  eyes  ? 
If  you  do  you  are  greater  cowards  than  he  called  you  just  now.  You 
speak  to  him,  Captain  Brown,  he'll  mind  you." 

The  young  fellow  leaped  from  his  horse.  "Captain  Brown,  I 
propose  to  carry  a  line  to  yonder  ship.  You  said  a  while  ago  only 
God  and  a  miracle  could  save  those  poor  people  there." 

"Yes,  I  did  say  that." 

"Well,  Captain,  is  not  your  God  as  strong  and  able  to  help  His 
people  to-day  as  He  was  nineteen  hundred  years  ago?" 

The  old  wrecker's  eyes  measured  and  weighed  the  sturdy  giant 
before  he  spoke. 

"This  are'nt  the  time  of  miracles,  Capt'n  Luke,  now— look  for 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  153 

yourself — can  you  carry  a  line  out  yonder?  Can  any  man  do  it?" 
Luke  Conner  deliberately  surveyed  the  prospect  before  him;  he  saw 
all  the  danger,  all  the  necessity,  too,  and  felt  how  desperate  the  chances 
really  were,  but  to  his  soul  it  was  a  solemn  message  from  his  God, 
which  he  would  obey. 

"I  can  try,"  he  said,  "the  most  of  the  danger  lies  there  in  that 
first  breaker;  there  is  some  in  the  second,  and  less  in  the  third;  if  I 
could  pass  the  three  lines  of  breakers,  the  tide  would  favor  me,  and 
I  could  feel  almost  certain  of  success.     Will  you  help  me?" 

The  Captain  turned  to  his  men  for  counsel,  but  the  wreckers  shook 
their  heads.  "It's  no  use,  Capt'n  Luke,  it  are'nt  in  mortal  power 
to  do  it,  an'  we  aren't  goin'  to  stan'  by  an'  see  you  dashed  to  pieces 
on  this  shore." 

"  I  am  only  one  man,  and  there  are  at  least  a  hundred  on  that  ship. 
She  cannot  last  much  longer  with  that  sea  hammering  the  life  out  of 
her  at  every  stroke." 

An  awful  piercing  cry  went  up  from  the  wreck,  drowning  the 
beat  of  the  waves  and  the  roar  of  the  wind.  The  men  turned — the 
vessel  had  parted  amidships,  and  men  and  women  were  struggling 
in  the  sea,  clinging  desperately  to  fragments  of  the  wreck. 

The  old  wrecking-master  gave  a  signal  glance  at  this  new  and 
imminent  danger,  and  then  said,  "I'll  help  you,  there's  not  a  man 
here  as  won't  help  you.     Now,  when  will  you  be  ready?" 

"In  a  few  minutes.  Get  out  the  lines  at  once,  and  let  the  first 
be  light  and  strong  as  possible." 

It  spread  around  among  the  people  on  the  beach  that  Captain 
Conner  intended  carrying  a  line  to  the  wreck.  Margaret's  face  had 
grown  pallid  and  haggard  since  she  had  heard  the  story. 

"Let  us  say  good-by  quickly,"  he  said,  "I  must  go  at  once." 

But  the  fierce  love  surging  in  her  woman's  heart  mastered  her, 
and  she  threw  her  arms  about  him  and  held  him  close  to  her  breast. 

"O  God!"  she  cried,  "I  daren't  do  what  is  right.  I  cannot  let 
you  go,  Luke,  I  cannot  let  you  go,"  and  she  sank  down  motionless 
upon  the  sands. 

"Are  ycu  quite  ready,  Capt'n  Conner?"  the  wrecking-master 
asked  a  few  minutes  later,  wiping  great  beads  of  sweat  from  his  face. 


154  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"All  ready,  Captain."  The  voice  was  blithe  and  cheery,  the  man's 
step  was  free  and  assured.  The  old  wrecking-master  securely  fastened 
the  thin  strong  cord  about  his  shoulders  and  under  his  arms.  That 
was  made  fast  to  a  thicker,  stronger  cord,  and  that  in  its  turn  to  a 
cable  of  sufficient  strength  to  sustain  the  life-car.  As  the  mountainous 
wave  rolled  in  foaming  and  hungry,  he  murmured,  "  God  be  merciful 
to  me,  a  sinner." 

The  thundering  wave  reared  its  awful  crest  and  poised  itself  for 
the  break  upon  the  shore;  he  sprang  forward,  plunging  headlong 
under  it.  Then  the  men  about  the  ropes  stood  ready  to  receive  back 
again  his  body  with  life  or  without  it. 

But  it  did  not  return  to  them  on  the  wave,  and  with  terror  on  their 
faces,  they  turned  to  watch  the  line  that  slowly  uncoiled  itself  and 
glided  through  the  master's  fingers  For  a  moment  they  all  stood 
silently  watching  coil  after  coil  glide  away,  then  the  master  looked  up, 
his  lips  white,  his  hands  trembling,  "Thank  God,  mates,  he  has  passed 
the  first  breaker." 

He  had,  and  was  thus  far  safe  and  he  knew  he  would  have  a  second's 
breathing-space  to  prepare  himself  for  the  next  wave.  He  saw  it  as 
he  emerged  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  sweeping  down  upon  him  with 
a  mighty  surge  and  roar,  but,  before  it  could  reach  him,  he  was  down 
again  beneath  it,  and  in  the  undertow  of  the  first  breaker,  going  rapidly 
out  to  sea.  The  villagers  and  guests  of  the  farm  stood  looking  out 
among  the  waves  with  anxious  hopeless  faces,  but  nowhere  could  they 
distinguish  the  head  of  the  swimmer.  The  line  stood  still  or  swayed 
from  side  to  side,  and  then  ran  out  rapidly  and  tightened  in  the  Captain's 
fingers;  again  it  slackened,  and  yard  after  yard  of  it  was  flung  back 
to  shore  on  the  crest  of  a  wave;  the  line  gathered  up  and  then  tightened, 
giving  assurance  that  Luke  Conner  was  still  alive. 

He  was  alive  and  the  third  breaker  had  passed  harmlessly  over 
him,  but  between  him  and  the  ship  there  was  still  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  mad  turbulent  sea,  rolling  and  heaving  before  the  wind 
on  which  he  was  tossed  like  a  cork.  On  each  wave  he  rose  and  fell, 
now  going  ahead,  now  losing  in  one  moment  more  than  he  had  gained 
in  three,  yet  on  the  whole  surely  lessening  the  distance  between  him 
and  the  ship,  for  the  tide  carried  him  forward. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  155 

By  the  side  of  the  old  Captain  stood  Margaret  Taunton  very  quiet, 
pale,  and  tearless,  watching  every  movement  of  the  line.  Directly  they 
came  to  know  by  its  decreasing  coils  that  either  he  had  drifted  far 
away  from  it  or  that  he  was  near  the  ship.  The  minutes  seemed  to 
have  crept  into  hours,  hours  into  days,  and  the  cord  glided  away,  or 
stood  still,  or  was  washed  shoreward. 

But  in  the  moment  that  hope  was  greatest  in  their  hearts,  yards 
and  yards  of  the  slender  cord  glided  swift  as  lightning  through  their 
hands,  and  the  Captain  sprang  forward  and  hauled  it  fiercely  in. 

"What  is  it,  Captain  Brown?     What  is  it  that  is  wrong?" 

"  Nothing  wrong,  Miss  Margaret,  but  more  nor  an  hour  is  gone, 
and  we  should  a-drawed  in  afore  now." 

A  frightened  whisper  went  through  the  crowd,  and  killed  every 
particle  of  hope  within  her.  What  she  heard  was  this,  "There  be 
a  dead  man,  and  a  shark  at  tother  end  of  that  line." 

Suddenly  she  started  up  from  among  them,  her  hand  tossing  back 
from  her  eyes  the  golden  splendor  of  her  hair,  her  right  arm  stretched 
straight  out  before  her,  her  voice  ringing: 

"No,  no,  no,  you  mistake,  see  there!  See  there!  Look  at  the 
ship,  and  thank  God,  O  thank  God,  all  of  you!" 

They  turned  their  eyes  to  where  the  white  arm  pointed,  and  they 
saw  a  man  dragged  up  from  among  the  jib-chains  of  the  wrecked 
ship;  they  saw  him  mount  to  the  deck,  and  heard  the  passengers 
and  crew  shout  out  their  joyful  cry  of  deliverance. 

"Now,  then,"  the  old  Captain  yelled,  "can't  you  men  raise  a 
single  cheer  for  the  brave  fellow  who  was  saved  a  hundred  lives?" 

No,  they  could  not,  the  old  Captain  could  not  do  it  himself;  their 
sudden  gladness  after  their  sharp  pain  was  choking  them.  But  the 
moment  gone,  they  shouted  till  they  were  hoarse,  and  then  all  of  them 
went  to  work  like  men  who  had  just  waked  up  and  were  beginning 
a  new  day,  every  one  of  them  working  like  six. 

Away  spun  the  line,  and  away  until  the  last  strong  cable  of  all 
was  made  fast  to  the  ship,  drawn  taut,  and  then  along  spun  the  life- 
car  with  a  couple  of  brave  fellows  in  it  to  the  wreck.  In  five  minutes 
it  was  back  again  on  shore.  The  sturdy  wreckers  worked  with  a  will 
and  dragged  the  life-car  to  and  from  the  ship,  until  every  man,  woman, 


153  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  child  was  landed.  When  the  last  load  came  ashore,  every  one 
crowded  down  as  near  to  the  sea  as  they  could  get,  waiting  to  welcome 
their  hero  among  them  again.  When  he  landed  what  a  shout  they  sent 
up.  The  rescued  drew  near  to  him,  craving  only  to  touch  the  man 
who  had  conquered  sea  and  land,  delivering  from  the  jaws  of  death 
a  hundred  lives. 


WHEN   FATHER    RODE    THE    GOAT. 


THE  house  is  full  of  arnica 
And  mystery  profound ; 
We  do  not  care  to  run  about 

Or  ~\  "  e  the  slightest  sound. 
We  lc  •■'  '    piano  shut 

Ana  do  n„,  su'ike  a  note; 
The  doctor's  been  here  seventeen  times 
Since  father  '•ode  the  goat. 

l  lined  ti±v    odge  a  week  ago — 

*    \         M. 

Ai         .       .  brethren  brought  him  home, 
Though  he  says  that  he  brought  them. 

His  wri'      ;.as  vp>-ained  and  one  big  rip 
Had  rent  hr     unday  coat — 

There  must  have  been  a  lively  time 
When  father  i  ode  the  goat. 

He's  resting  on  the  couch  to-day 

And  practising  his  signs — 
The  hailing  signal,  working  grip, 

And  other  monkey-shines ; 
He  mutters  passwords  'neath  his  breath, 

And  other  things  he'll  quote — 
They  surely  had  an  evening's  work 

When  father  rode  the  goat. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  li-7 

He  has  a  gorgeous  uniform, 

All  gold  and  red  and  blue, 
A  hat  with  plumes  and  yellow  braid, 

And  golden  badges,  too, 
But,  somehow,  when  we  mention  it, 

He  wears  a  look  so  grim, 
We  wonder  if  he  rode  the  goat, 

Or  if  the  goat  rode  him. 


WINNING   HIM    BACK. 


ANITA   VIVANTI   SCHARTRES. 
[From  "  Smart    Set,"    by   special  permission.] 

"  /^\NE  always  has  to  win  a  man  back  after  one  has  married  him," 
\_J     said  Fifine. 

"Win — him — back!"  mused  Grace. 

"How  does  one  do  it?" 

"By  keeping  up  the  Houp-la." 

"The  what?" 

"My  dear  Gracie,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  no  one  at  school 
ever  spoke  about  my  mother?  '  Everybody  spoke  about  my  father, 
the  Count  de  La  Corderie,  but  we  always  skipped  my  mother.  That 
is  because  she  was  a  dear  little  circus-girl  with  fluffy  skirts,  who  perched 
on  the  backs  of  fat,  white  horses,  and  leaped  through  paper  rings. 
My  father  fell  in  love  with  her  because  of  the  funny  little  way  in  which 
she  used  to  cry  'Houp-la!'  just  before  turning  a  somersault  on  the 
galloping  horse.  After  she  was  married,  she  never  allowed  him  to 
fall  out  of  love  with  her.  And  she  told  me  she  did  it — '  by  keeping  up 
the  Houp-la.'" 

"But  what  did  she  mean?" 

"'The  Houp-la,'"  she  used  to  say  to  me,  "'is  to  married  life  what 
the  sparkle  is  to  champagne;  nothing  definite — but  how  essential!'" 

"I  suppose  it  is  all  very  lucid  to  you,  but  I  do  not  see  anything 
that  applies  to  me  or  to  Tom.      And  Tom  was  perfectly  heartless 


158  WERNER'S  READINGS 

this  morning.  When  I  looked  out  of  the  window  after  him,  he  only 
just  turned  around  once  to  wave  his  hand." 

"Now,  then,  to-morrow  do  not  go  to  the  window  at  all.  If  he 
mentions  the  fact,  say,  '  Dear,  dear,  did  I  forget  ? '  And  henceforward 
keep  a  little  shadow  of  mystery  over  your  soul,  and  let  your  eyes  be 
dreamy.  Spring  surprises  upon  him.  Pack  up  a  powder-puff  and 
a  silk  petticoat,  and  let  him  find  you  watch  a  cab  at  the  door,  going 
away  forever!  Take  poison  one  day.  Be  shot  at  by  a  frenzied  lover 
the  next." 

"It  sounds  dreadfully  wearing." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you  are  satisfied  to  be  like  everv  other 
wretched  wife,  do  it  in  your  own  way,"  said  Fifine  rising. 

"  Are  you  sure  it  will  work,  Fifine?" 

"Sure?  Of  course,  I  am  sure.  Have  I  not  tried  it  on  Regi- 
nald?" 

"Who  is  Reginald?" 

"My  dear.     He  is  a  tall,  gentlemanly  angel." 

"Oh,  Fifine,  to  think  that  you  are  engaged,  and  that  you  have 
never  told  me!" 

"Well,  I  am  not  exactly  engaged." 

"Perhaps,  darling,  a  little  less  Houp-la — " 

Fifine  cast  a  glance  of  withering  scorn  at  her  friend.  "I  will 
help  you  with  your  affairs,  Grace,  if  you  wish  me  to ;  but  I  will  manage 
mine  in  my  own  way." 

Little  did  Mr.  Thomas  Carrington  know  what  was  going  on  in 
his  household  in  the  days  that  followed. 

Grace  resolved  that  she  would  be  a  stranger  to  him.  But  he  came 
home  in  a  very  good  humor,  and  did  all  the  talking  himself.  So  she 
left  off  being  a  stranger,  and  detemined  to  be  dreamy,  morbid,  and 
unwholesome. 

When  he  came  into  the  house  redolent  of  perfumes,  he  said  "Phew! 
You  have  had  those  wretched  old  maids,  the  Harrisons,  up  here  again 
for  tea.  I  smell  them.  Open  up,  Gracie,  and  let  us  have  some  fresh 
air." 

With  Fifine,  Grace  practised  fainting  until  she  ached  all  over, 
and  she  arranged  herself  on  the  floor  when  she  heard  Tom's  key  in 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  159 

the  door  down-stairs.  But  her  little  sister  came  in  and  tickled  her 
so  she  had  to  get  up  and  race  around  the  table. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  said  dejectedly  to  Fifine,  "I  don't 
seem  to  have  won  him  back  a  bit." 

"I  have  done  all  these  things  successfully  with  Reginald,  because, 
you  see,  he  does  not  live  in  the  house.  He  just  comes  in  and  sees 
me  and  is  terribly  moved;  then  I  wave  my  hand  weakly  and  say, 
'Go!  go!'  as  I  fall  back  unconscious.  And  he  goes.  You  must  be 
shot  at  by  a  frenzied  lover,  Grace.  That  is  infallible.  You  first  take 
the  bodice  of  a  dress  that  you  don't  care  about.  And  you  shoot  it 
through  the  sleeve.  Then  you  put  a  piece  of  mustard  plaster  on  your 
arm.  When  you  take  it  off  again  the  skin  is  sore  and  red,  and  that 
is  where  the  bullet  grazed  past  you.  Of  course,  you  refuse  to  divulge 
the  man's  name.  But  you  will  see  how  excited  and  anxious  and 
adoring  your  Tom  will  be." 

Grace  was  inclined  to  scoff.  "I  will  do  it,  Fifine,  but  it  is  against 
my  better  judgment." 

They  found  an  old  black  bodice,  and  they  took  Tom's  revolver 
and  went  down  into  the  yard  to  do  the  shooting.  They  pinned  the 
bodice  to  the  wooden  fence  that  separated  their  yard  from  the  neighbor's 
and  Fifine  shot  at  it.  They  never  knew  how  it  happened,  but  the 
yard  was  suddenly  full  of  people,  and  there  were  two  policemen  hold- 
ing the  cook,  who  was  struggling  and  shouting  and  kicking.  The 
negro  servant  from  the  other  side  of  the  fence  had  come  in,  and  was 
accusing  the  cook  of  already  having  tried  to  murder  her  three  or  four 
times. 

At  this  point  a  policeman  took  hold  of  Grace  with  one  hand  and 
of  Fifine  with  the  other,  and  said  to  the  policeman  who  was  holding 
he  cook:   "Bring  them  all  along  to  the  police  station." 

The  policeman  got  forty  dollars  and  went  away.  The  two  girls 
wept  hysterically  and  the  cook  left  without  notice,  after  getting  very 
drunk, 

"This  is  my  last  suggestion,"  said  Fifine.  "I  lay  awake  all  night 
thinking  it  out — it  is  perfect!  In  order  to  make  Tom  jealous,  you 
must  have  another  man  who  sends  you  presents,  flowers,  letters, 
jewels      Well,  you  get  a  man  to  send  you  a  priceless  gem — " 


160  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Fifine,  I  have  not  got  a  man  who  will  send  me  a  priceless 
gem." 

"Of  course  not.  But  this  is  what  yOu  do.  You  go  to  a  jeweler; 
you  select  a  ring;  you  pay  and  take  it  on  approval.  Then  you  send 
it  to  yourself,  with  a  bunch  of  flowers  and  a  love-letter.  Your  husband 
finds  all.  He  makes  a  scene  of  jealousy.  You  win  him  back.  Then 
you  return  the  ring  to  the  jeweler,  who  refunds  you  the  money.  Thc:e 
,you  are!" 

Grace  had  sixty  dollars,  and  Fifine  knew  a  jeweler  not  far  off.  At 
the  jeweler's,  Fifine  explained: 

"We  wish  to  look  at  some  handsome  rings — what  one  would  call 
priceless  gems." 

Rosenstein  showed  them  a  diamond  ring  at  two  thousand  dollars, 
an  emerald  ring  at  eighteen  hundred  dollars,  and  a  pearl-and-diamond 
ring  at  four  hundred  dollars. 

"  We  want  something  cheaper,"  said  Grace. 

He  looked  at  the  two  ladies  a  moment,  then  brought  a  ring — some 
small  diamonds  around  a  large  ruby. 

"  And  what  a  wonderful  ruby,"  said  Grace. 

"Vahnderful!     I  should  say,"   agreed  Rosenstein. 

"How   much?" 

"Only  two  hahndred  and  feefty  dahlars." 

"Laisscr-moi  faire.  Nonsense,  Mr.  Rosenstein.  You  asK  two 
hundred  and  fifty — you  are  going  to  get  a  hundred.  Of  which  we  will 
give  you  sixty  on  account." 

"Ach!  vaht  a  vahnderful  calculator!  Vaht  I  gif  to  haf  such  a 
beesiness  voman  in  my  beesiness!" 

He  took  Grace's  address  and  the  two  friends  went  home  in  at 
pleasant  flutter  of  excitement. 

"Oh,  we  forgot  the  flowers,  Grace!" 

"  And  we  have  barely  time  to  write  the  letter  before  Tom  gets 
home,    Fifine." 

"I'll  run  and  order  the  flowers,  dear.  Hold  my  satchel.  The 
ring  is  in  it.  You  go  up-'stairs  and  write  the  letter  yourself;  don't 
be  afraid  of  making  it  passionate,"  and  Fifine  was  gone. 

Grace  opened  the  little  bag  and  took  the  ring  out,  dropping  a 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  163 

who  arrived  with  a  large  box  of  bonbons.  She  was  going  down, 
when  she  heard  Rosenste-in's  voice.  She  was  on  the  second  landing, 
when  she  saw  her  husband  come  in. 

"I  vish  to  see  Mrs.  Carrington,"  said  Rosenstein.  "She  hat  from 
me,  yesterday,  a  ruby  ring." 

"Well,  Mr.  Wilkins,"  said  Tom,  "you  got  your  ring  back!  and 
you  are  a  cad  and  a  blackguard." 

Mr.  Wilkins  arose  from  the  sofa.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  think 
there  is  some  mistake." 

"Dis  man  ant  his  wife  are  teifs.     There  is  the  voman!" 

"Will  you  allow  me,"  said  the  real  Wilkins  stepping  forward  with 
raised  hand. 

"Dere's  my  ruby  ring,  vaht  you  owe  me  de  balance  on,  and  vaht 
you  say  you  returned,  you  many  tiefs!" 

The  bell  had  rung,  and  Collins  had  shown  in  Fifine. 

"Dere  is  de  oder  voman,  do  oder  tief." 

"Oh,  Tom!  pay  him,  it  is  only  forty  dollars." 

"Tree  hahndred  and  feefty  dahlars,  not  one  cent  less,  or  I  haf 
you  all  arrested." 

"Is  this  your  ring?"  asked  Wilkins.     "Why,  take  it — and  get  out!" 

"Ah!  Gott  im  Himmel,  you  haf  changed  de  stone.  Dat's  no 
ruby;  dat's  a  piece  of  glass.  Tree  hahndred  and  feefty  dahlars,  or 
you  all  go  to  jail." 

Mr.  Wilkins  bought  the  ring,  Rosenstein  hurried  to  the  door. 
"De  ruby  alone  as  a  vahnderful  imitation  is  vorth — "     He  left! 

There  were  explanations. 

"Is  this  yours?"  Fifine  asked  of  Mr.  Wilkins,  holding  up  the  box 
of  sweets. 

"No,  deahwest,  it  is  yours,"  said  Reginald.  "And  so  is  this,  if 
you  will  do  me  the  honor,"  and  he  tried  to  slip  the  ruby  ring  on  her 
finger. 

"You  angel!"  said  Fifine;   "go  ahead!" 

And  he  went  ahead. 

And  she  went  with  him,  arm  in  arm— for  all  time. 

"I  hope,  dear,"  said  Tom  to  Grace,  "that  you  will  not  win  me 
back  any  more.     It  upsets  things  so!" 


164  WERNER'S  READINGS 

A   GARDEN  PLOT. 


JULIA   TRUITT  BISHOP. 


TWO  very  fai  at -hearted  young  people  were  looking  at  one  another 
over  the  back  fence  of  the  vegetable-garden. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  go  to  my  paternal  ancestor  and  speak 
to  him  about  it,"  said  the  young  man,  resignedly.  "I  might  as  well 
take  out  a  good  slice  of  life  insurance  before  I  start.  But  if  I  do  go 
you've  got  to  promise  that  you'll  go  to  your  mother.  I'm  not  going 
to  run  all  the  risks!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go,"  said  the  girl,  desperately. 
"  And  I'm  just  as  afraid  as  I  can  be.  I  know  there's  some  plot  against 
us.  Your  father  came  to  see  mamma  yesterday  about  something,  and 
mamma  looked  at  me  just  awfully  after  he  had  gone.  I've  been  afraid 
to  speak  to  her  ever  since!" 

"Maybe  they're  going  to  send  you  back  to  school  again.  I  won't 
have  it,  Nell,  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  If  it  comes  to  that,  we'll  run 
away'" 

"Oh,  Tom,  we  can't!  I'll — -I'll  speak  to  mamma — and  see  you 
here  to-morrow  evening.  Or  why  not  come  to  the  house?  Mamma 
never  has  said  you  couldn't,  you  know." 

"Oh,  but  the  way  she  looks  at  me!  Not  by  a  whole  lot,  Nell! 
We'll  trust  to  these  cold-hearted  cabbages  instead." 

Whereupon  the  two  parted  with  such  evidences  of  affection  as 
the  vines  permitted,  and  went  valiantly  forth  to  make  confession. 

Nell  found  her  mother  writing  at  her  little  desk  in  the  corner; 
but  at  Nell's  approach  Mrs.  Grayson  shut  and  locked  the  desk  with 
a  snap,  and  turned  an  accusing  face  upon  her  daughter.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  she  knew  all!  Nell's  heart  beat  a  hurried  double  tattoo, 
and  her  nicely  composed,  dutiful  little  speech  died  on  her  lips.  All 
that  she  managed  to  say  was  "Mamma!"  Mrs.  Grayson  turned 
pale. 

"You  had  better  go  to  your  own  room,"  she  said,  with  austere 
dignity,  "and  remain  there  till  you  can  listen  to  reason  and  talk  over 
matters  calmly." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  105 

Mrs.  Grayson  swept  out  of  the  room,  and  thus  abruptly  ended 
Nell's  confession. 

Tom,  gifted  with  a  knowledge  of  men  that  should  make  of  him 
a  diplomat  some  day,  waited  until  Colonel  Drane  had  eaten  a  remark- 
ably good  dinner  and  was  stretched  at  ease  in  a  capacious  chair. 

"I  have  come  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  about  a  certain  matter — " 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  Colonel  was  up,  with  an  apoplectic  look  on 
his  countenance. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir!"  he  shouted.  "I  know 
exactly  what  you  would  say!  Well,  sir,  you  needn't  say  it!  My 
mind  is  fully  made  up!  Not  a  word,  sir!  You  may  go!  I  wish  to  be 
alone!" 

And  thus  abruptly  ended  Tom's  confession. 

The  next  day  the  butter -bean  vines  received  two  new  experiences — 
the  one  very  tearful  and  the  other  full  of  very  determined  laughter, 

"She  sent  for  him  to-day!"  sobbed  the  tearful  one.  "I  know 
I'll  be  sent  away  now.  I  heard  him  talking  loud  in  there,  and  telling 
her  something  about  not  paying  any  attention  to  two  children." 

"You  are  eighteen  and  I  am  twenty-three,"  said  the  laughing  one. 
"Two  good-sized  children,  I  should  think.  I  have  the  license  in  my 
pocket,  Nellie.  Run  and  get  your  hat,  and  come  around  to  the  side 
gate.  We'll  go  up  to  Mr.  Morrison's  and  be  married.  He's  been 
married  lately  himself,  and'll  know  how  to  sympathize  with  us." 

"Run  away?     Oh,  Tom,  let's  not  run  away!" 

But  the  young  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  had  the  license, 
and,  besides,  he  had  the  girl's  heart.  It  began  to  be  apparent  that 
there  was  no  other  way.  The  end  of  it  was  that  Nell  came  out  of 
the  side  gate,  trembling  at  every  sound  in  the  house  she  had  just  left, 
and  she  and  Tom  started  off  hand  in  hand,  like  two  children. 

"Oh,  I  feel  certain  she'll  overtake  me!" 

"Let's  run — we  can  beat  them  both  running!"  suggested  Tom. 
And  so  they  both  ran,  holding  each  ether's  hand. 

They  arrived  at  the  Rev.  Felix  Morrison's  quite  breathless  and  full 
of  laughter;  and  Felix  Morrison's  girl- wife  laughed  with  them,  and 
clapped  her  hands  on  hearing  that  they  were  going  to  be  married 
right    away.     The   Reverend    Felix    himself   demurred.     They    were 


166  WERNER'S  READINGS 

both  very  young — had  they  presented  the  matter  properly  to  those 
who  had  authority  over  them  ? 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  Tom,  cheerfully.  "We've  done 
everything  we  could — begged  and  implored  and  entreated — they  were 
hard  as  a  rock.  Here's  the  license — Mrs.  Morrison  can  witness — 
fire  ahead!" 

"Now  do,  Felix!"  begged  the  little  wife  on  the  other  side.  "They 
love  each  other — almost  as  much  as  you  and  I  do.  Suppose  anything 
had  kept  us  apart!" 

The  mere  supposition  of  such  a  thing  set  the  minister's  lips  and 
sent  a  spark  into  his  calm  blue  eyes.     " Stand  up!"  he  said. 

It  was  at  this  awful  moment  that  they  heard  the  sharp  click  of  the 
gate-latch,  and  Nell  cast  a  terrified  glance  between  the  lace  curtains. 
The  light  of  the  street-lamp  showed  two  figures  hurrying  up  the  walk. 

"Oh,  here  they  both  come!"  cried  Nell,  in  an  agony  of  fear. 
"They've  followed  us!     Oh,  do  save  us,  somebody!" 

"Here,  into  the  back  parlor!"  Mrs.  Morrison  was  already  pushing 
them  under  the  portieres.     "Now,  do  keep  still!"  she  warned. 

"If  you  can  throw  them  off  the  scent,"  cried  Tom,  running  back 
and  wringing  the  minister's  hand.     "If  you  could  just  lie  a  little — " 

"He  can't,  but  I  can!"  said  Mrs.  Morrison,  eagerly.  "Here 
they  come — what's  the  use  if  you  don't  keep  out  of  sight?" 

Colonel  Drane  and  Mrs.  Grayson  might  easily  have  noticed  that 
there  was  an  air  of  subdued  excitement  in  the  parlor  to  which  they 
were  admitted,  that  Mr.  Morrison's  hand  shook,  and  that  a  look  of 
indignation  and  high  resolve  was  on  Mrs.  Morrison's  face.  But  the 
truth  was,  they  did  not  notice  it,  for  they  had  larger  matters  in  hand. 
How  guilty  did  the  Reverend  Felix  feel  when  he  saw  Colonel  Drane 
cast  a  stony  glance  around  the  room! 

^"Very  pleasant  weather,"  said  the  Reverend  Felix,  with  an  air  of 
deep  impressiveness. 

"Very!"  said  the  Colonel,  drily.  Tom,  in  the  back  parlor,  groaned 
in  spirit  at  the  sound  of  that  voice. 

"I  thought  this  morning  that  we  should  have  rain,"  ventured  Mr. 
Morrison,  firmly;  "but  the  clouds — " 

"  Ah,  yes!"  said  Colonel  Drane,  curtly.     "But  we  came  up  to  see — " 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  167 

"Certainly!"  Mr.  Morrison  hastened  to  assure  him.  He  felt  that 
he  could  hear  Tom  and  Nell  breathing  in  the  back  parlor. 

"Now  for  it!"  whispered  Tom,  holding  Nell  carefully  to  keep 
her  from  fainting.     "The  worst  will  be  over  in  a  few  minutes!" 

"The  fact  is,"  said  the  Colonel,  fixing  the  unhappy  minister  with 
his  eye  and  speaking  in  an  awed  voice  and  with  a  very  red  face,  "Mrs. 
Grayson  and  myself  have  come  up  to  be  married!" 

Rev.  Felix  Morrison  tottered  against  the  mantelpiece  in  the  front 
parlor,  and  Tom  tottered  against  the  mantelpiece  in  the  back  parlor; 
but  the  Colonel  went  on,  belligerently,  "We  have  chosen  this  method 
because  we  do  not  wish  any  gossip  or  remark,  and  because  my  son  and 
Mrs.  Grayson's  daughter  have  shown  themselves  so  plainly  opposed 
to  any  hint  of  it — " 

Mrs.  Felix  Morrison  had  gone  off  into  the  back  parlor  and  into 
hysterics,  and  was  laughing  and  crying  at  a  great  rate.  Tom  had 
set  Nell  down  in  an  easy-chair,  and  was  rubbing  his  chin  with  his  hand 
as  well  as  he  could  for  a  most  undignified  grin. 

"If  the  young  people  are  opposed  to  it,"  said  Rev.  Mr.  Morrison, 
chokingly,  "  would  it  not  be  better  to  wait  awhile  and  gain  their 
consent?" 

"No,  sir,  it  would  not!"  roared  the  Colonel,  testily.  "They  have 
been  holding  secret  meetings  and  plotting  against  us  for  days!  I  do 
not  propose  to  be  dictated  to  by  two  such  snips  of  children!  Here  is 
the  license,  sir.  We  are  both  of  age,  I  think.  Mrs.  Morrison  can 
witness!" 

And  then,  as  they  stood  up,  two  figures  swooped  down  upon  them 
and  stood  facing  them,  side  by  side,  holding  each  other's  hand. 

"Well,  father,"  said  Tom,  severely,  "I  must  say  I  am  scandalized. 
Running  away  to  be  married!     And  at  your  time  of  life!" 

"Tom!"  ejaculated  the  Colonel,  "Wha' — wha' — " 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  you,  mamma!"  said  Nellie,  with 
much  spirit.  "  To  think  of  you  doing  such  a  thing  without  saying 
a  word  to  me!" 

"A  pretty  thing  this  will  be  to  get  out!"  remarked  Tom,  regarding 
his  father  gloomily.  "How  is  a  young  fellow  to  get  up  in  the  world 
if  his  father  runs  away  and  gets  married  every  time  he  takes  a  notion?" 


168  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  And  what  an  example  to  set  before  me!"  said  Miss  Nellie,  primly. 

Mrs.  Grayson  had  already  sunk  into  a  chair  and  buried  her  face 
in  a  handkerchief,  and  now  the  Colonel  sank  into  another  one  close 
by.     He  felt  very  weak. 

"Now  that  you  both  know  it,  Tom,"  he  said,  feebly,  "I  don't  mind 
waiting  and  being  married  quietly  at  home  some  evening.  If  you 
hadn't  shown  such  determined  hostility — " 

"We'll  have  the  wedding  at  home,"  said  Tom,  willing  to  show  a 
forgiving  disposition.  "  And  while  we  are  about  it  we  will  have  a 
double  wedding — you  and  Mrs.  Grayson,  Nell  and  I." 

"You!  You  two!"  cried  Mrs.  Grayson,  emerging  from  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"We  two,"  announced  Tom,  airily.  "But  you  didn't  catch  tis 
running  away."  He  spoke  with  a  lofty  moral  tone,  at  the  same  time 
giving  the  Reverend  Felix  a  furtive  kick. 

The  Colonel  had  taken  time  to  digest  the  statement,  but  now  he 
broke  out  with  a  roar  of  laughter,  slapping  his  knees. 

"You  two!"  he  roared.  "Great  Scott!  Whoever  would  have 
d learned  it?     How  did  you  ever  keep  it  so  close?" 

After  which  Mrs.  Grayson  and  Nell  were  forced  to  go  into  the 
back  parlor  and  give  their  personal  attention  to  Mrs.  Morrison,  who 
seemed  about  to  collapse. 


SAVE   MY   SON! 


VICTORIEN   SARDOU. 


[Scene  from  the  play  "  Robespierre."] 


ROBESPIERRE,  President  of  the  National  Assembly  of  France, 
during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  had  unwittingly  condemned  to 
death  his  own  son  Olivier,  whom  he  had  not  seen  from  birth.  Olivier's 
mother  Clarisse,  and  his  fiance  Therese,  are  waiting  with  Robespierre 
to  have  Lebas  return  from  prison  with  Olivier  free. 

The    entrance   door    was   pushed    open.     Lebas    came   in    alone. 
Olivier  was  no  longer  at  the  prison  of  La  Force! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  169 

"Escaped?"  asked  Robespierre,  breathlessly. 

"Unfortunately  not!"  said  Lebas,  "but  taken  by  order  of  the 
Committee  of  Public  Safety,  to — where?     No  one  could  tell!" 

"Before  the  Tribunal!"   Clarisse  screamed. 

Robespierre  cried  breathlessly  to  Lebas : 

"Oh,  quick!    Go  down  and  see!" 

Lebas  rushed  off,  and  Robespierre  ran  to  the  window,  Clarisse, 
in  mad  despair,  following  him. 

"If  he  is — you  will,  you  must,  cry  out  to  the  people  that  he  is  your 
son!" 

Therese,  drawn  from  the  bedroom  by  the  deafening  cries  of  the 
crowd,  now  entered,  trembling  with  fear.  The  carts  were  there. 
She  could  hear  them!  She  went  straight  to  the  window,  but  Clarisse 
barred  the  way. 

"Oh,  no!  You  must  not  look  at  such  a  spectacle.  Better  kneel 
down  and  pray  .  .  .  Pray  for  those  about  to  die  and  for  us  also; 
yes,  for  ourselves,  pray  with  all  your  soul!" 

Therese  fell  on  her  knees  and  joined  her  hands,  her  large  blue  eyes, 
brimful  of  tears,  lifted  toward  the  deserted  church  opposite. 

The  terrible  tumult  now  burst  on  their  ears  like  the  rumble  of 
thunder.  The  crowd  was  ushering  the  first  tumbrel  into  the  Rue 
du  Martroy.  Discordant  strains  of  revolutionary  songs  rose  above  the 
rumbling  of  the  cart-wheels,  the  clank  of  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the 
cracking  of  whips. 

Robespierre  had.  half  opened  the  shutters  and  tried  to  distinguish 
the  first  cart  through  the  dense  crowd.  Clarisse  struggled  with  him 
to  look  also,  but  the  Incorruptible  held  her  back  resolutely. 

"No;  I  will  look  alone!" 

"Do  you  see  him?     Tell  me;   is  he  there?" 

"No." 

"He  is  there;  I  know  it!"  and  again  she  struggled  to  reach  the 
window. 

"I  swear  to  you  he  is  not  there!"  and,  exhausted,  he  quit  hold  of 
her  to  wipe  his  brow. 

The  first  tumbrel  had  passed.  Olivier  was  not  in  the  first.  But 
the  second?    He  was  perhaps  in  the  second. 


v  , 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Clarisse  would  have  cried  out  in  her  despair,  but  she  struggled 
against  the  mad  impulse  and  suppressed  her  choking  sobs  lest  she 
should  reveal  the  awful  truth  to  Therese,  who,  still  on  her  knees,  her 
eyes  turned  toward  the  church,  prayed  aloud: 

"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven;  hallowed  be  Thy  name;  Thy 
Kingdom  come;    Thy  will  be  done.  .  ..." 

But  she  was  interrupted  by  another  outburst  from  the  mob  an- 
nouncing the  second  tumbrel.  Already  scraps  of  the  furies'  songs 
reached  her  from  the  distance. 

"  Dansons  la  Carmagnole! 
Vive  le  son 
Vive  le  son 
Dansons  la  Carmagnole 
Vive  le  son 
Du  Canon!  .  .  ." 

Clarisse,  taking  advantage  in  a  moment  of  Robespierre's  relaxed 
vigilance,  pressed  nearer  to  the  windows. 

"The  second  cartload!" 

"There  are  two  of  them,"  said  Robespierre,  who,  taller  than  she, 
could  command  a  more  distant  view. 

Two !  Two  carts !  It  was  impossible  for  Olivier  not  to  be  in 
one  of  them. 

"He  is' there;  I  feel  it.  .  .  .     I  tell  you,  he  is  there!" 

In  her  anxiety  to  see  better,  she  grew  regardless  of  precaution. 
Robespierre  struggled  to  draw  her  from  the  window.  It  was  madness. 
She  might  be  seen! 

Therese  still  raised  her  voice,  choked  with  tears,  in  supplications 
to  Heaven: 

"Holy  Mary,  mother  of  God,  fray  for  us  sinners,  now,  and  at  the 
hour  of  our  death.     Amen!" 

A  cry  of  anguish  rent  the  air.  Clarisse  had  recognized  Olivier. 
"There,  in  that  cart!"  Robespierre  strained  his  eyes,  half  dead  with 
fear.  .  .  .  "Where?  "Where?"  He  could  not  see  him.  "Oh,  yes! 
Yes!  there,  in  the  second  cart.'     That  young  man  standing,  his  head 


I 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  171 

bent!  ..."  And,  unable  longer  to  contain  herself,  in  the  madness 
of  grief,  she  placed  her  hand  on  the  window  clasp  and  would  have 
opened  it;  but,  no!  she  was  mistaken! 

"You  see,  it  is  not  he!" 

"Then  he  must  be  in  another  cart.  ..."  And,  worn  out  with 
agonizing  suspense  and  excitement,  she  sank  down  in  a  chair.  Again 
the  noisy  clamor  died  into  the  distance. 

Robespierre  took  courage  now.     It  was  surely  the  last  cart-load. 

''You  look!"  cried  Clarisse.  ...     "I  cannot  look  again!" 

Oh,  if  it  were  the  last  and  this  torture  at  an  end! 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  hands  and  closed  her  eyes  in  order  to 
see  no  more,  while  great  silent  tears  trickled  through  her  fingers. 

Robespierre  lifted  the  shutters  and  stopped  to  look  through,  but 
quickly  let  them  fall  again.  Alas!  It  was  not  over!  There  was 
still  another  tumbrel.  The  buzz  of  sounds  advancing  gradually  be- 
tokened it  too  well! 

In  one  bound  Clarisse  was  at  the  window. 

"Will  it  never  end?" 

Robespierre  made  a  gesture  to  close  her  mouth. 

"For  God's  sake,  do  not  scream!" 

But  Clarisse  didmot  heed  him;  she  would  go  out!  Out,  into  the 
street!  Robespierre  held  her  back  with  fresh  entreaties.  Maddened 
by  the  restraint,  she  struggled  desperately  to  free  herself. 

Therese,  distracted  from  her  orisons  by  the  violence  of  the  scene, 
turned  her  head.  Seeing  Clarisse's  state,  she  understood  all  in  a 
moment.  Olivier  was  there  in  one  of  those  tumbrels!  Olivier  was 
on  the  way  to  the  scaffold!  .  .  .  And  Clarisse,  now  regardless  of 
consequences,  owned  the  truth. 

"Oh,  yes,  Olivier,  our  Olivier,  he  is  there!  They  are  going  to  kill 
him!  .  .  ." 

"Olivier!  kill  him!"  repeated  Therese,  half  dazed;  then  the 
awful  reality  rushed  suddenly  upon  her.  She  started  to  her  feet  with 
a  cry  that  echoed  through  the  house. 

"Olivier  going  to  die?     Oh!    mamma,  mamma!" 

Robespierre  continued  his  supplications,  holding  Clarisse^  who 
still  struggled,  in  his  grasp.     She  would  have  her  son!     She  would 


172  WERNER'S  READINGS 

go  and  demand  him  from  the  executioner !     Every  mother  there  would 
intercede  for  her! 

"  If  they  will  not  give  him  to  me,  let  them  kill  me,  kill  me  with  him! 
I  will  go!  I  will  go!  I  must  save  my  son!  For  God's  sake,  let  me 
go!" 

Robespierre  implored  Therese  to  help  him  hold  Clarisse  back. 
But  his  voice  was  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  mob  that  rose  and  beat 
against  the  window-panes  like  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea. 

"  Ca  ira,  ga  ira,  ga  iral"   howled  the  Mamads. 

Clarisse  had  now  freed  herself,  and  ran  to  the  door  to  open  it.  But 
Robespierre,  quick  as  thought,  stood  before  her  and  barred  the  way. 

"Remain  where  you  are,  I  charge  you!" 

Then  resolutely  and  solemnly  he  added : 

"I  myself  will  go!  And  if  he  is  in  that  cart,  I  will  brave  all  to 
save  him!"  Seeing  that  Clarisse  seemed  doubtful,  he  added  with 
emphasis,  "I  swear  it  to  you!" 

A  flood  of  tears,  tears  of  gratitude,  was  Clarisse's  only  answer. 

"May  you  be  forgiven  all  for  those  brave  words!"  she  sobbed. 

He  led  her  to.  a  chair  near  the  window,  and,  in  a  state  of  exhaustion, 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  seated.  Therese  bending  over  her  forgot 
her  own  tears  in  drying  those  of  Clarisse.  Robespierre,  drawn  to 
the  window  by  a  fresh  outburst  in  the  street,  turned  and  looked  out. 
There  was  but  one  more  cart  now!  The  prison  escort  followed  in  the 
rear.     It  was  indeed  the  last. 

The  last!  It  was  the  last  cartload.  If  Olivier  was  not  there,  he 
was  saved!  But  he  must  be!  Alas,  he  must,  where  else  could  he  be? 
Struggling  between  hope  and  fear,  Clarisse  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
with  clasped  hands  prayed  aloud. 

"O  Lord,  my  God!  my  God!  God  of  mercy  and  compassion, 
grant  that  my  child  may  not  be  there!" 

Robespierre,  livid  to  the  lips,  continued  his  agonizing  watch. 

Growing  anxious  at  the  silence  of  the  Incorruptible,  Clarisse  would 
have  risen,  but  her  strength  failed  her.  and  she  sank  down  again  on 
her  knees,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Olivier's  father,  trying  to  read  in  his  drawn 
features  evidence  of  his  hopes  or  fears.  Therese  joined  her  in  this 
mute  questioning. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  173 

Robespierre    was    alternately    raising    himself,    bending    aside,    or 
stooping  lower  to  see  more  plainly. 

Suddenly  he  gave  an  exultant  cry: 

"He  is  not  there!" 

"Are  you  sure?     Are  you  sure?"   gasped  Clarisse. 

Robespierre,  to  convince  her,  came  and  raised  her,  and,  supporting 
her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  the  window. 

"  Do  you  believe  me  now  ?  "  he  said . 

It  was  true.     There  were  only  women  in  the  cart. 

"Only    women!     My    God,    what    a    relief!"     exclaimed    Clarisse 
leaving  the  window. 

She  had  fallen  on  her  knees  again,  her  head  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
thoroughly  prostrate  with  exhaustion. 

•Vague,  far-away  murmurs  came  to  them  from  the  distance,  then 
ceased  entirely,  while  the  belfry  clock  of  Saint  Gervais  struck  six. 


THROUGH   FIRE   AND    WATER. 


JOSEPH   C.   LINCOLN. 


[Cutting  from  "Cap'n  Eri";  by  special  permission.     Copyright,  1905,  by  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.] 

CAPTAIN  PEREZ  had  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  Patience  Davis 
to  marry  him. 

Love  is  like  the  measles;  it  goes  hard  with  a  man  past  fifty,  and 
Captain  Perez  was  severely  smitten,  but  he  lacked  the  courage  to 
ask  the  momentous  question.  Patience  had  once  said  that  a  man  who 
loved  a  woman  should  be  willing  to  go  through  fire  and  water  to  win 
her.     Captain  Perez  went  home  that  night  pondering  deeply. 

"Fire  and  water!  That's  a  turrible  test.  I  wonder  if  I  could 
doit.     Fire  and  water!     My!  my!  that's  awful!" 

So  the  Captain  delayed  and  Miss  Patience,  who  had  cherished 
hopes,  found  need  of  a  good  share  of  the  virtue  for  which  she  was 
named. 

But  one  afternoon  Perez  set  out  for  a  call  upon  his  intended  which 
he  meant  should  be  a  decisive  one. 


174  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He  found  the  lady  alone.  She  was  very  glad  to  have  company, 
and  it  required  no  great  amount  of  urging  to  persuade  the  infatuated 
swain  to  stay  to  tea.  When  the  meal  was  over,  the  pair  were  seated 
in  the  parlor.  Then  said  Captain  Perez,  "Pashy,  do  you  know  what 
a  feller  told  me  'bout  you?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  don't,  Perez." 

"Well,  a  feller  told  me  you  was  the  best  housekeeper  in  Orham. 
He  said  that  the  man  that  got  you  would  be  lucky." 

"Landsake!  Whoever  told  you  such  rubbish  as  that?  Besides,. 
I  guess  no  man  would  ever  want  me." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  guess  there's  plenty  would  be  mighty  glad 
to  git  you.  Anyhow,  there's — there's  one  that — that — I  cal'late  the 
fog's  thick  as  ever,  don't  you?" 

But  Miss  Patience  didn't  mean  to  give  up  in  this  way. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you're  here  to  keep  me  comp'ny.  I've  never 
been  sole  alone  in  this  house  afore,  and  I  should  be  dreadful  lonesome 
if  you  hadn't  come." 

"Pashy,  I've  got  somethin'  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  Do  you  think 
you  could — er — er — " 

"What,  Perez?" 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you — to  ask  you —    What  in  the  nation  is  that?" 
*"Oh,  that's  nothin';   only  the  hens  squawkin'.     Go  on!" 

"Yes,  but  hens  don't  squawk  this  time  of  night  'thout  they  have 
some  reason  to.     It's  that  fox  come  back;  that's  what  'tis." 

Miss  Patience,  earlier  in  the  evening,  had  related  a  harrowing  tale 
of  the  loss  of  two  of  Mrs.  Mayo's  best  Leghorns  that  had  gone  to  furnish 
a  Sunday  meal  for  a  marauding  fox. 

"Oh,  Perez!  you  don't  s'pose  'tis  the  fox,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  do!     Where's  the  gun?" 

"There  'tis,  behind  the  door.     Come  quick,  and  bring  a  lamp." 

When  they  opened  the  door  the  noise  was  louder  than  ever. 

"He's  in  the  hen-house,"  whispered  Miss  Patience.  "He  must 
have  gone  in  that  hole  at  the  side  that  had  the  loose  board  over  it." 

"All  right,"  murmured  the  Captain.  "You  go  'round  with  the 
lamp  and  open  the  door.  That'll  scare  him,  and  I'll  stand  at  trie  hole 
and  thump  him  when  he  comes  out." 


AND  RECITATIONS   NO.  37.  175 

So,  shielding  the  lamp  with  her  apron,  the  guardian  of  Mrs.  Mayo' 
outraged  Leghorns  tiptoed  around  to  the  hen-house  door,  while  Captain 
Perez,  brandishing  the  gun  like  a  club,  took  up  his  stand  by  the  hole 
at  the  side. 

The  darkness  was  pitchy.  The  Captain,  stooping  down  to  watch, 
saw  something  coming  out  of  the  hole.  He  swung  the  gun  above  his 
head,  and,  bringing  it  down  with  all  his  might,  knocked  into  eternal 
oblivion  the  little  life  remaining  in  the  finest  Leghorn  rooster. 

"Consarn  it!"    he  yelled.     "I've  killed  a  hen!" 

Just  then  there  came  a  scream  from  the  other  side  of  the  hen-house, 
followed  by  a  crash  and  the  sound  of  a  fall.  Running  around  the 
corner  the  alarmed  Perez  saw  his  lady-love  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
groaning  dismally. 

"Great  land  of  Goshen!     Pashy,  are  you  hurt?" 

"Oh,  Perez!"   gasped  the  fallen  one.     "Oh,  Perez!" 

This  pitiful  appeal  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  Captain  that  he 
dropped  upon  his  knees  and,  raising  Miss  Davis's  head  in  his  hands, 
begged  her  to  say  she  wasn't  killed. 

What  had  happened  was  this:  The  fox,  having  selected  his  victim 
the  rooster,  had  rendered  it  helpless,  and  was  pushing  it  out  of  the 
hole  ahead  of  him.  The  Captain  had  struck  the  rooster  just  as  Miss 
Patience  opened  the  door,  and  the  fox,  seizing  this  chance  of  escape, 
had  dodged  by  the  lady,  upsetting  her  as  he  went. 

"Well,"  she  said,  laughing,  "there's  no  great  harm  done.  Oh, 
my  soul  and  body !  look  there!" 

Perez  looked  as  directed,  and  saw  the  hen-house  in  flames. 

The  lighted  lamp,  which  Miss  Patience  had  dropped  as  she  fell, 
lay  broken  on  the  floor.  The  flames  were  making  such  headway 
that  they  both  saw  there  was  practically  no  chance  of  saving  the  build- 
ing. 

"Oh,  those  poor  Leghorns!"  wailed  Miss  Patience.  "Now  they'll 
be  all  burned  up!     What  shall  I  do?" 

"Pashy!"  roared  the  Captain,  "don't  say  another  word.  I'll 
save  them  hens  or  git  cooked  along  with  'em ! " 

And  turning  up  his  coat  collar  Captain  Perez  sprang  through  the 
door. 


176  WERNER'S  READINGS 

^  Miss  Davis  screamed  wildly  to  him  to  come  back,  and  danced 
about  wringing  her  hands.  The  interior  of  the  hen-house  was  now 
a  mass  of  black  smoke,  from  which  the  voices  of  the  Captain  and  the 
Leghorns  floated  in  a  discordant  medley. 

•  "Hold  still,  you  lunatics!"  ("Squawk!  squawk!")  "Druther  be 
roasted  than  have  me  catch  you,  hadn't  you  ?  "  ("Squawk!  squawk!") 
''A — kershew!  Land!  I'm  smothered!  Now  I've  got  you!  Thun- 
deration!    Hold  still/    HOLD  STILL,  I  tell  you!" 

Just  as  the  agonized  Miss  Patience  was  on  the  point  of  fainting, 
the  little  window  at  the  back  of  the  shanty  was  thrown  open  and  two 
hens,  like  feathered  comets,  shot  through  it.  Then  the  red  face  of 
the  Captain  appeared  for  an  instant  as  he  caught  his  breath  with  a 
"Woosh!"  and  dived  back  again.  This  performance  was  repeated 
six  times. 

The  Captain  at  length  announced,  "That's  all,  thank  goodness!" 
and  began  to  climb  through  the  window,  but  he  stuck  fast. 

"Catch  hold  of  my  hands  and  haul,  will  you,  Pashy?  That's 
it;  pull  hard!  It's  gittin'  sort  of  muggy  in  behind  here.  I'll  never 
complain  at  havin'  cold  feet  ag'in  if  I  git  out  of  this.  Now,  Jhen! 
Ugh!     Here  we  be!" 

He  came  out  with  a  jerk,  like  a  cork  out  of  a  bottle,  and  rolled 
on  the  ground  at  his  lady's  feet. 

"Oh,  Perez!"   she  exclaimed,  "are  you  hurt?" 

The  Captain's  face  was  blackened,  and  his  clothes  were  scorched, 
but  his  spirit  was  undaunted. 

"Pashy,"  he  said,  "do  you  realize  that  if  we  don't  git  help,  this 
whole  shebang,  house  and  all,  will  burn  down?" 

"Won't  somebody  from  the  station  see  the  light  and  come  over?" 

"  Not  in  this  fog.  You  can't  see  a  hundred  foot.  We've  got 
to  get  help.     Good  land!     Is  the  horse  gone?" 

"  No;  the  horse  is  here.  But  there's  no  carriage  but  the  old  carryall, 
and  that's  almost  tumblin'  to  pieces." 

"I  was  cal'latin'  to  go  horseback." 

"What!  and  leave  me  here  alone  with  the  house  afire?  No, 
indeed!    If  you  go,  I'm  goin',  too." 

"  Well,  then,  the  carryall's  got  to  do,  whether  or  no." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  177 

"  As  t'ney  drove  out  of  the  yard  the  flames  were  roaring  through 
the  roof  of  the  hen-house,  and  the  lath-fence  surrounding  it  was  begin- 
ning to  blaze. 

"Everything's  so  wet  from  the  fog,"  observed  the  Captain,  "that 
it'll  take  sometime  for  the  fire  to  git  to  the  barn.  If  we  can  git  a  gJhg 
here  we  can  save  the  house  easy,  and  maybe  mere.  By  mighty!  I 
tell  you  what  we'll  do.  I'll  drive  across  the  ford  and  git  Luther  an  1 
some  of  the  station  men  to  come  right  across.  It  was  seven  when  I 
looked  at  the  clock  as  we  come  in  from  washin'  dishes,  so  the  tide  must 
be  still  goin'  out,  and  the  ford  jest  right.     Git  dap!" 

"My  gracious,  how  dark  it  is!  Think  you  can  find  the 
crossin'?" 

"Got  to  find  it;   that's  all.     'Tis  dark,  that's  a  fact." 

It  was.  They  had  gone  but  a  few  hundred  yards;  yet  the  fire  was 
already  merely  a  red  smudge  on  the  foggy  blackness  behind  them. 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  exclaimed  Miss  Davis.  "Are  you  sure  you're 
on  the  right  track?  Seems  's  if  we  must  be  abreast  the  station,  and 
this  road's  awful  rough." 

VWhoa!"  commanded  the  Captain.  Then  he  got  down,  lit  a 
match,  and  scrutinized  the  ground.  "I'm  kind  of  'fraid,  that  we've 
got  off  the  road  somehow.  But  we  must  be  'bout  opposite  the  crossin '. 
I'm  goin'  to  drive  down  and  see  if  I  can  find  it." 

*rle  turned  the  horse's  head  at  right  angles  from  the  way  they  were 
going,  and  they  pitched  onward  for  another  hundred  yards.  Then 
they  came  out  upon  the  hard,  smooth  sand,  and  heard  the  water  lap- 
ping on  the  shore. 

The  horse  shivered  as  the  cold  water  splashed  his  legs,  but  waded 
bravely  in.  They  moved  further  from  the  shore  and  the  water  seemed 
to  grow  no  deeper. 

"Guess  this  is  the  crossin'  all  right,"  said  the  Captain.  "Here's 
the  deep  part  comin'.     We'll  be  'cross  in  a  jiffy.". 

The  water  mounted  to  the  hubs,  then  to  the  bottom  of  the  carryall. 

"Oh,  Perez!   are  you  sure  this  is  the  ford?" 

"Don't  git  scared,  Pashy!  I  guess  maybe  we've  got  a  little  to 
one  side  of  the  track.     I'll  turn  'round  and  try  again." 

But  the  horse  was  oi.a  different  mind.     From  long  experience 


178  WERNER'S  READINGS 

he  knew  that  the  way  to  cross  the  ford  was  to  go  straight  ahead.     The 
bottom  of  the  carryall  was  awash. 

"Port  your  helium,  you  lubber!"  shouted  the  Captain.  "Heave  to! 
Come  'bout!" 

VThen  the  horse  tried  to  obey  orders,  but  it  was  too  late.  He 
wallowed  wildly  to  one  side  and  snapped  a  shaft  and  the  rotten  whiffle- 
tree  short  off.  The  carryall  tipped  alarmingly  and  Miss  Patience 
screamed. 

"Whoa!"   yelled  the  agitated  Captain. 

The  animal,  as  much  frightened  by  Captain's  shouts  as  by  the  water, 
shot  ahead  and  tried  to  tear  himself  loose.  The  other  rotten  shaft 
broke.     The  carryall  was  now  floating. 

"No  use;  I'll  have  to  cut  away  the  wreck,  or  we'll  be  on  our  beam 
ends!"  shouted  the  Captain. 

He  took  out  his  jack-knife,  and,  reaching  over,  severed  the  traces. 
The  horse  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  The  carriage,  now  well  out 
in  the  channel,  drifted  with  the  current. 

"Don't  cry,  Pashy!"  said  the  Captain,  "we  ain't  shark  bait  yit. 
I've  shipped  aboard  of  'most  every  kind  of  craft,  but  blessed  if  I  ever 
expected  to  be  skipper  of  a  carryall!" 

But  Miss  Patience,  shut  up  in  the  back  part  of  the  carriage,  wept 
hysterically. 

"Oh,  dear!  Now  everything  '11  burn  up,  and  they'll  blame  me 
for  it.  Well,  I'll  be  drownded  anyway,  so  I  shan't  be  there  to  hear 
'em.     Oh,  dear!    dear!" 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  that  way.  We're  driftin'  somewheres,  but  we're 
spinnin'  'round  so  I  can't  tell  which  way.  Judas!  I  remember,  now, 
it  ain't  but  a  little  past  seven  o'clock,  and  the  tide's  goin'  out." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  and  we'll  drift  into  the  breakers  in  the  bay,  and 
that'll  be  the  end." 

"  No,  no,  I  guess  not.  We  ain't  dead  yit.  If  I  had  an  oar  or  some- 
thin'  to  steer  this  clipper  with,  maybe  we  could  git  into  shoal  water. 
I've  a  good  mind  to  jump  overboard,  and  try  to  swim  ashore  and  tow 
the  carryall." 

"Don't  you  do  it!  My  land!  if  you  should  drown  what  would 
become  of  me?" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  179 

The  tone  of  this  speech  hit  the  Captain  hard.  He  himself  almost 
sobbed  as  he  said: 

"Pashy,  I  want  you  to  try  to  git  over  on  this  front  seat  with  me. 
Then  I  can  put  my  coat  'round  you,  and  you  won't  be  so  cold.  Take 
hold   of  my  hand." 

Miss  Patience  at  first  protested  that  she  never  could  do  it  in  the 
world.  But  her  companion  urged  her  to  try,  and  at  last  she  reached 
the  fronj:  seat  somehow,  and  the  carryall  still  remained  right-side-up. 

Captain  Perez  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  wrapped  it  about  his  pro- 
testing companion.     lie  was  obliged  to  hold  it  in  place. 

"Oh,  you're  so  good!"  murmured  Miss  Patience.  "What  should 
I  have  done  without  you?" 

The  arm  holding  the  coat  about  the  lady's  shoulder  tightened  a 
little. 

"Pashy,  I've  been  thinkin'  of  you  consider'ble  lately.  Fact  is, 
I — I — well,  I  come  down  to-day  a-purpose  to  ask  you  somethin'.  I 
know  it's  a  queer  place  to  ask  it,  and — and  I  s'pose  it's  kind  of  sudden, 
but — will — will  you — Breakers!  by  mighty!" 

The  carryall  had  suddenly  begun  to  rock,  and  there  were  streaks 
of  foam  about  it. 

'V We're  capsizin',"  yelled  Perez.     "Hang  on  to  me,  Pashy!" 

But  Miss  Patience  didn't  intend  to  let  this,  perhaps  the  final  oppor- 
tunity, slip. 

"Willi  what,  Perez?" 

The  carryall  rose  on  two  wheels  and  began  to  turn  over,  but  the 
Captain  did  not  notice  it.  The  arms  of  his  heart's  desire  were  about 
his  neck,  and  he  was  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  marry  me?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Miss  Patience,  and  they  went  under  together. 

The  Captain  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  dragged  his  chosen  bride 
to  tiers.  The  ice-cold  water  reached  their  shoulders.  And,  like  a 
flash,  as  they  stood  there,  came  a^orrent  of  wind  that  drove  the  fog 
before  it  like  smoke.  Captain  Perez  saw  the  shore,  only  a  few  yards 
away.     Beyond  that,  in  the  blackness,  was  a  flickering  blaze 

The  Captain  dragged  Miss  Patience  to  the  beach.-, 

"Run!"  he  chattered,  "run,  or  we'll  turn  into  icicle^" 

X  «  4 

V  <& 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

With  his  arm  about  her  waist  Perez  guided  his  dripping  companion 
toward  the  light. 

It  was  Mrs.  Mayo's  hen-house,  and  Mrs.  Mayo's  fence.  Their 
adventurous  journey  had  ended  where  it  began. 

Abner  Mayo  had  piled  against  the  back  of  his  barn  a  great  heap 
of  damp  seaweed  that  he  intended  using  in  the  spring  as  fertilizer. 
The  fire  had  burned  until  it  reached  this  seaweed,  and  then  had  gone 
no  further.     The  rain  extinguished  the  last  spark. 

"  You  see,"  said  Captain  Perez  later,  as  he  sat  in  the  kitchen  wrapped 
in  an  old  ulster  of  Mr.  Mayo's,  "that  clock  in  the  dining-room  that 
I  looked  at  hadn't  been  goin'  for  a  week;  the  mainspring  was  broke. 
'Twa'n't  seven  o'clock,  'twas  nearer  nine  when  the  fire  started,  and 
the  tide  wa'n't  goin'  out,  'twas  comin'  in,  and  we  jest  drifted  back 
home  ag'in.  If  I  don't  feel  like  a  fool.  Ail  that  scare  and  wet  for 
nothin'." 

"Oh,  not  for  nothin',  Perez,"  said  Miss  Patience,  looking  tenderly 
down  into  his  face. 

"Well,  no,  not  for  nothin'  by  a  good  deal!  I've  got  you  by  it, 
and  that's  everything.  But  say,  Pashy!"  and  the  Captain  looked 
awed  by  the  coincidence,  "I  went  through  fire  and  water  to  git  you!" 


A   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT   AND  WHAT   CAME   OF   IT. 


ROSE   TERRY   COOKE. 


FETCH  him  right  :n  here,  pa.  Poor  little  feller!  I  hope  he'll 
come  to!"  The  man  who  had  just  fished  this  pickle  of  a  boy 
out  of  the  brook  obeyed  the  kind  voice,  and  Aunt  Nancy  Peck  strippe  1 
off  the  wet  clothes,  rubbed  the  cold  body,  and  tried  all  her  homely, 
old-fashioned  ways  of  restoration.  Boys  are  hard  to  kill;  before 
the  doctor  got  there  Leslie  Varick  opened  his  eyes  and  laughed  in 
Aunt  Nancy's  face,  and  the  dear,  kindly  old  face  smiled  back  on  the 
naughty  boy. 

Leslie  had  been  sent  to  spend  the  summer  in  Barrett,  while  his 
father  and  mother  were  abroad,  and  being  a  human  boy,  he  got  into 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  181 

every  variety  of  mischief  known  to  that  species.  At  last  he  got  well, 
and  in  the  late  autumn  went  home,  and  told  his  mother  how  good 
Aunt  Nancy  had  been  to  him ;  and  Mrs.  Varick  felt  as  mothers  do  feel, 
even  about  the  naughtiest  boys,  that  she  owed  her  a  debt  of  gratitude, 
and  Leslie  had  a  scrap  of  heart  under  all  his  mischief,  and,  putting 
his  curly  head  on  his  mother's  lap,  began:  "Mammy,  haven't  you 
got  something  I  can  give  old  Aunty  Peck?  She  was  tremendously 
good  to  me  when  I  cracked  my  shinbone  down  there  in  Barrett." 

"O  Lello!  what  a  slangy  boy!  I  meant  to  send  her  a  nice  gift 
at  Christmas,  but  you  may  choose  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  I've  got  it!  send  her  those  red  things  you  got  to  wear  on 
your  neck  and  ears." 

"My  pink  corals?  Why,  child,  they  are  set  in  pearls,  and  cut  by 
the  best  artist  in  Italy;  the  set  cost  five  hundred  dollars.  Try  again, 
sir!" 

Leslie  put  his  head  on  one  side,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
whistled  "Captain  Jinks"  as  he  peered  into  the  trunks. 

"Here's  the  very  thing! — this  dull  old  shawl.  It  does  look  rather 
dirty,  but  she  could  wash  it,  and  its  soft  and  warm." 

Mrs.  Varick  lifted  up  her  hands  and  eyes.  "Leslie,  my  camel's- 
hair  shawl  that  your  father  would  buy  me,  though  I  protested!  The 
handsomest  shawl  in  Paris,  and  the  dearest!" 

"  It  looks  dirty,  anyway,  I  don't  care  if  it  cost  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
and  I  know  Aunty  Peck  wouldn't  wear  it  till  'twas  washed!  She 
can't  abide  dirt.  I  guess  you'll  have  to  pick  out  her  present,  Pseem 
to  miss  it  every  time."  c. 

"Don't  you  think,  Lello,  a  nice  black  silk  dress  would  be  a  good 
thing?" 

"Like  enough,"  muttered  Leslie,  disgusted  at  such  a  commonplace 
thing.  A  crimson  satin  would  have  been  more  to  his  own  taste,  but 
he  dared  not  suggest  it.  So  Mrs.  Varick  bought  twenty-five  yards 
of  excellent  silk,  heavy  fringe  to  trim  it,  expensive  buttons,  and  all 
needful  linings  and  thread,  supposing,  from  Lello's  enthusiasm,  that 
Ozias  was  a  well-to-do  farmer,  instead  of  a  poor  blacksmith,  whose 
daily  fare  was  made  dainty  to  Leslie  by  the  keen  air  of  Barrett  and 
the  uncompromising  appetite  of  a  boy. 


182  WERNER'S   READINGS 

So  the  dress  was  sent  with  a  scrubby  little  letter  from  Leslie,  wishing 
Aunty  Peck  a  merry  Christmas;  and  this  was  the  end  of  it  to  the 
Varicks,  but  it  was  only  the  beginning  of  things  to  Aunt  Nancy. 

When  the  package  arrived  she  was  as  pleased  as  a  woman  could  be. 

"Why,  'Zias  Peck!"  she  exclaimed,  "this  beats  all  natur'.  What 
upon  airth  shall  I  do  with  it  ?  It's  heaps  too  good  for  an  old  creatur' 
like  me." 

" 'Tain't  nuther,"  retorted  Ozias.  "I've  allers  'lotted  on  buyin'  of 
ye  a  silk  gownd  some  day,  Nancy,  but  somehow  things  have  went 
ag'inst  me  mortally.  There  ain't  no  woman  in  Barrett  deserves  it 
no  more'n  you  do;  'nd  I'm  thankful  to  Providence  for  doin'  of  it,  so 
be's  I  couldn't  myself." 

Aunt  Nancy's  brown  eyes  shone  with  tears.  "Well,  well,  pa,  I 
don't  say  but  what  I'm  glad  on't,  though  I  hed  ruther  'twould  ha' 
ben  a  suit  of  Sabba'-day  clothes  for  you.     My  alpacky  is  good  enough." 

"  Sho,  mother,  you  go  'long  and  sew  your  gownd,  an'  put  it  on,  'nd 
go  to  meetin'  in't,  Sabba-day  clothes  do  wimmin-folks  a  heap  more 
good  'n  men-folks." 

So  Aunt  Nancy  folded  up  her  dress,  and  took  it  to  Miss  Salter  to 
cut  and  baste,  intending  to  sew  it  herself.  But  as  the  lengths  of  silk 
lay  across  Miss  Salter's  table  in  sailed  Mrs.  Gross,  whose  husbard 
kept  the  Barrett  "store." 

"Whose  dress  is  that?"   she  asked  curtly. 

"  Why,  it's  Aunt  Nancy  Peck's;  ain't  it  a  most  elegant  silk?"  purred 
Miss  Salter. 

"I  want  to  know!  what's  happened  to  them  Pecks?  I  thought  he 
was  shif'less  as  a  Canady  thistle.  How  come  she  by  that  dress  ?  It's 
curus  how  sech  folks  is  always  owin'  and  always  havin'." 

"  Why,  she  says  'twas  sent  to  her  by  that  youngster  'Zias  fished 
out  o'  the  pond  last  summer." 

"My  sakes!  I  don't  believe  it.  Boys  ain't  so  skerce  that  folks  pay 
that  way  for  haulin'  of  'em  out  of  water.  I  don't  believe  but  what 
she's  laid  by  quite  a  spell  to  buy  it  herself." 

Mrs.  Gross  flounced  out  of  the  room,  and  took  a  straight  course  for 
the  store. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  183 

"Well,  Hiram  Gross,"  she  began,  "here  I  have  been  a-slavin'  and 
a-savin'  for  you  this  seventeen  year,  and  I  haven't  never  had  but  one 
silk  gownd  to  my  tack;  'nd  here's  'Zias  Peck's  wife  has  got  a  satin- 
finished  black  silk  a-cuttin'  to  Sabry  Salter's  fit  for  the  Judge's  wife, 
trimmin's  to  match.     Don't  he  owe  ye  a  bill  right  along?" 

"Well,"  said  the  easy  man,  "I  don't  know  but  what  he  d-oos,  a 
leetle.  'Zias  means  well — he  means  real  well ;  but  he  ain't  fore-handed, 
'nd  I  don'  know's  I  feel  to  blame  him.     He  was  born  tired,  I  expect." 

"Now,  I  want  to  see  them  books  o'  yourn,  Hi  Gross;  ef  he  owes 
ye  thirty  dollars,  jest  you  set  a  lawyer  onto  him,  an'  git  the  money, 
an'  buy  me  a  silk  gownd ;  she'd  oughter  hev  paid  ye  the  money  b'fore 
she  buyed  sech  finery  as  that,  an'  me  goin'  everywhere  in  nothing 
but  a  cashmere." 

"No,  Sary,  'twouldn't  be  no  use  for  ye  to  see  them  books  n-ow; 
they  ain't  footed  up." 

But  she  would  not  be  baffled.  Taking  the  matter  into  her  own 
hands,  she  stepped  into  the  little  shanty  one  bitter  cold  morning,  when 
Ozias  sat  crouched  over  the  fire  waiting  for  a  job,  and  told  the  poor 
man  that  Mr.  Gross  wanted  him  to  pay  up  his  bill;  he  couldn't  afford 
to  be  out  of  the  money  so  long. 

"I'm  dre'dful  sorry,  Mrs.  Gross,  I  don't  see  no  way  to  raise  the 
money  dyrect.  I  thought  'twas  kind  of  'greed  on  to  take  a  share  on't 
out  in  shoein'  the  horse,  'nd  there's  a  little  on  my  side  to  the  good!" 

"  Folks  that  can  buy  their  wives  black  silk  gowns  had  ought  to 
pay  their  store-bills,"  snapped  the  woman,  fixing  her  cold  gray  eyes 
on  him.  Ozias  was  struck  dumb.  The  silk  dress,  that  he  took  such 
pride  in,  was  crumpled  up  and  thrown  in  his  face;  and  Mrs.  Gross 
left  him  staring  at  her,  his  mouth  open,  and  his  jaw  dropped. 

"What  upon  airth!  She  does  beat  all!"  He  ejaculated  as  she 
disappeared,  "Well,  I  won't  say  nothin'  to  mother." 

WTrile  this  happened  Aunt  Nancy  was  sitting  by  the  window, 
stitching  away  at  the  new  gown,  and  in  sailed  Miss  Beers,  collector  for 
the  church  contributions. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,"  said  Aunt  Nancy,  "I  did  expect  to  have  some- 
thing as  usual  to  contriboot,  but  I  hain't.  Things  is  so  this  year  that  I 
can't  do  jest  what  I  hev  done." 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"H'm!"  sniffed  Miss  Beers,  setting  her  pale  lips  more  closely, 
and  staring  at  the  silk  dress.  "  I  should  think  if  you  sold  your  goods 
and  gi'n  the  money  to  them  that  needs  salvation  a  sight  more'n  you 
need  a  silk  gownd,  'twould  be  a  lot  better  for  your  immortal  soul." 

"Why,  mercy  sakes!  Miss  S'manthy,  the  dress  was  gi'n  to  me,  I 
couldn't  give't  away,  nor  sell  it,  ye  know.  That  Varick  boy  that  come 
so  near  gittin'  drownded  was  here  quite  a  spell  with  a  broke  leg,  and 
I  nussed  him  up,  for  his  folks  was  to  Eurup  and  he  went  and  sent  me 
this  in  a  present,  trimmin's  an'  all." 

"Well,  I  must  say  it's  sing'lar;  I  should  ha'  thought  they'd  ha' 
thought  five  dollars  a  week  was  enough;  sence  you  say  so,  of  course, 
it's  so,  but  seems  as  though  'twas  scatterin'  their  means  to  do  sech 
things." 

Five  years  before,  Chester  Peck,  Ozias's  only  child,  had  been  seized 
with  a  wild  desire  to  go  to  California.  He  was  a  bright,  energetic 
young  fellow,  and  Ozias  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  his  son  ought 
to  go  somewhere  else  to  find  success,  so  he  mortgaged  his  house  for 
three  hundred  dollars,  and  sent  his  boy  off  on  his  travels.  But  after 
two  years  his  letters  suddenly  ceased,  and  his  father  and  mother  believed 
him  dead ;  but  the  mortgage  did  not  die,  and  year  after  year  it  taxed 
Ozias  to  the  utmost  to  pay  its  interest.  Now  Stephen  Spencer  was  a 
man  who  made  money  by  the  most  grinding  economy  and  all  kinds 
of  petty  shrifts  and  stratagems.  When  he  heard  that  Ozias  Peck's 
wife  had  a  new  black  silk  dress,  and  when  he  saw  it  on  a  bright  March 
Sunday,  rustling  up  the  aisle  on  her  well-rounded  person,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  about  to  lose  the  interest  on  his  mortgage;  he  would 
foreclose  at  once. 

Monday  Ozias  had  hardly  got  to  work  before  Stephen  Spencer 
appeared   at  the  shop  door  and  demanded  his  due. 

"You  had  ought  to  have  been  on  time,  'Zias  Peck.  TV  int'rest 
money  was  due  Friday  last,  and  I  hain't  seen  hide  nor  hair  on't." 

"  Don't  ye,  now  don't  ye,  Square  Spencer.  Times  is  so  everlastin' 
bad,  and  business  hez  fell  off.  I'd  ha'  did  it  ef  I'd  ha'  had  it  to  hev 
done." 

"That's  talk,"  said   the   Squire,   "bizness  is  bizness;    folks   that 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  185 

borrer  must  pay;  ef  you  can  buy  your  wife  a  silk  gownd  to  go  to  mett'n' 
in,  you  can  pay  me  fifteen  dollars,  sure  as  shootin',  and  you've  got  to." 

"Darn  that  gownd!"  burst  from  Ozias's  despairing  lips.  "No 
don't,  nuther.  The  gownd's  hern;  'twas  a  present,  I  didn't  buy  it 
no  more'n  you  did,  I  wisht  I  could,  but  I  couldn't." 

"  Don't  tell  me  no  sech  yarn  as  that,  'Zias  Peck.  Folks  don't  send 
silk  gownds  to  old  women  round  the  country,  no  more'n  they  rain 
out  o'  the  sky.  I  tell  ye  ag'in,  I've  got  to  hev  that  intrest  money  before 
Sat'day  night,  or  I'll  foreclose  that  moggidge  as  sure  as  I  stan'  here." 

Poor  Ozias  sank  on  to  his  nail-keg,  and  dropped  his  face  in  his 
hands.  What  could  he  do?  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  sell  the 
heifer,  a  creature  of  their  own  raising;  then  he  could  pay  Squire  Spencer 
and  part  of  the  store -bill. 

He  found  Selah  Hills  ready  to  pay  him  thirty  dollars  in  cash,  and 
/ake  the  animal  the  next  week.  He  put  off  telling  Aunt  Nancy  as 
long  as  he  could,  but  he  had  to  tell  Squire  Spencer  he  would  pay  his 
debt  the  next  Thursday;  but  as  he  drew  near  the  barn  on  Tuesday 
an  ominous  cough  smote  on  his  ear;  he  hurried  in  and  there  stood 
Betty,  her  eyes  dull  but  wild,  her  breath  like  the  labored  puff  of  rusted 
bellows,  the  dreaded  "cattle  ail"  had  attacked  her. 

All  day  Ozias  and  Nancy  worked  over  the  suffering  animal,  sat  up 
with  her  all  night,  and  were  beside  her  in  the  morning  when  Selah 
came  over  with  the  money. 

"Well,  I  declare,"  exclaimed  Selah,  "good  as  dead,  ain't  she? 
what'll  ye  take  for  hide  and  horns,  'Zias?" 

"Well,"  put  in  Stephen  Spencer,  "I  come  to  dun  ye,  and  I'm  stayin' 
to  dun  ye.  Either  I'll  foreclose  that  moggidge,  or  I'll  put  a  'tachment 
on  to  your  goods  and  chattels.  I  guess  that  ere  silk  gownd  '11  sell  for 
my  claim  ef  it  won't  for  Gross's." 

"  Do  it,  if  ye  dare!  That  there  gownd  is  my  wife's  own.  She  came 
by  it  in  a  way  you  won't  never  come  by  a  half  cent — by  bein'  kind  an' 
good  to  a  feller  creatur'  in  trouble.  I'll  chuck  ye  inter  the  mill-pond, 
and  never  look  for  ye  no  more,  ef  you  touch  a  button  on  it,  or  as  much 
as  take  it  off'n  the  peg. 

"Four-close  your  old  moggidge,  five-close  it,  ef  you  want  to;  we 
can  go  to  the  taown-house  to-morrer  without  howlin',  an'  I  shan't 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

care  a  straw  ef  Nancy's  along:  but  you  shan't  lay  a  finger  on  her 
nor   hern." 

"No  more  he  shall,  father,"  said  a  strong  young  voice,  and  Aunt 
Nancy  sprang  up  with  a  loud  cry  to  be  hugged  by  her  boy,  who  had 
come  home  from  California  in  the  nick  of  time. 

In  twenty-four  hours  the  mortgage  was  cancelled,  the  store-bill 
paid,  and  five  hundred  dollars  lodged  in  a  Hartford  savings-bank  to 
his  father's  credit. 


THE   HANDBOOK   OF   HYMEN. 


O.    HENRY. 


[From  The  Mv.nsey.     By  permission  of  Frank  A.  Munsey.] 


"T^IS  the  opinion  of  myself,  Sanderson  Pratt,  that  the  educational 
JL  system  of  the  United  States  should  be  in  the  hands  of  the 
weather  bureau.  Anyhow,  the  weather  furnished  me  and  Idaho 
Green  with  an  elegant  education. 

We  was  up  in  Montana  prospecting  for  gold,  with  enough  grub 
on  hand  to  last  an  army  through  a  peace  conference. 

One  evening  it  begun  to  snow.  Me  and  Idaho  moved  camp  into 
an  old  empty  cabin,  thinking  it  was  only  a  November  flurry.  But, 
after  falling  three  foot  on  a  level,  it  went  to  work  in  earnest ;  and  we 
knew  we  was  snowed  in.  We  got  in  plenty  of  fire-wood  and  let  the 
elements  cut  up  all  they  thought  proper. 

If  you  want  to  instigate  the  art  of  manslaughter  just  shut  two  men 
up  in  a  eighteen-by-twenty-foot  cabin  for  a  month. 

When  the  first  snowflakes  fell,  me  and  Idaho  Green  laughed  al 
each  other's  jokes.     At  the  end  of  three  weeks  Idaho  says: 

"I  never  exactly  hear  sour  milk  dropping  out  of  a  balloon  on  the 
bottom  of  a  tin  pan,  but  I  have  an  idea  it  would  be  music  of  the  spears 
compared  to  the  attenuated  stream  of  asphyxiated  thought  that  emanare 
out  of  your  organs  of  conversation." 

"Mr.   Green,"  says  I,   "if  I  had  my  choice  for  society  between 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   37.  187 

you  and  a  common,  yellow,  three-legged  cur  pup,  one  of  die  inmates 
of  this  here  cabin  would  be  wagging  a  tail  just  at  present." 

This  way  we  goes  on  for  two  or  three  days,  and  then  we  quits 
speaking. 

You  see,  me  and  Idaho  never  had  any  education  beyond  reading, 
and  doing  "if  John  had  three  apples  and  James  five"  on  a  slate.  But, 
snowbound  in  that  cabin,  we  felt  for  the  first  time  that  if  we  had  studied 
Homer  or  Greek  or  fractions,  we'd  have  had  some  resources  in  the 
line  of  meditation  and  private  thought. 

One  morning  Idaho  was  poking  around  with  a  stick  on  top  of 
a  little  shelf  that  was  too  high  to  reach.  Two  books  fell  to  the  floor. 
I  started  toward  'em,  but  caught  Idaho's  eye.  He  speaks  for  the 
first  time  in  a  week. 

"Don't  burn  your  fingers,"  says  he.  "I'll  give  you  a  square  deal. 
And  that's  more  than  your  parents  did  when  they  turned  you  loose 
in  the  world.  I'll  play  you  a  game  of  seven-up,  the  winner  to  pick 
up  his  choice  of  the  books,  the  loser  to  take  the  other." 

We  played;  and  Idaho  won.  He  picked  up  his  book;  and  I  took 
mine.  Then  each  of  us  got  on  his  side  of  the  house  and  went  to  read- 
ing. 

Mine  was  a  little  book  about  five  by  six  inches  called  "Herkimer's 
Handbook  of  Indispensable  Information."  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I 
think  that  was  the  greatest  book  that  ever  was  written.  There  was 
the  population  of  all  cities  in  it,  and  the  way  to  tell  a  girl's  age,  and 
the  number  of  teeth  a  camel  has,  and  a  hundred  times  as  many  things 
besides.  If  there  was  anything  Herkimer  didn't  know,  I  didn't  miss 
it  out  of  the  book. 

I  sat  and  read  for  four  hours.  I  forgot  the  snow,  and  I  forgot 
that  me  and  old  Idaho  was  on  the  outs.  He  was  sitting  on  a  stool 
reading  away  with  a  kind  of  partly  soft  and  partly  mysterious  look 
shining  through  his  tan-bark  whiskers. 

"Idaho,"  says  I,  "what  kind  of  a  book  is  yours?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  "this  here  seems  to  be  a  volume  by  Homer  K.  M." 

"Homer  K.  M.  what?"   I  asks. 

"  Why   just  Homer  K.'  M.,"  says  he. 

"You're  a  liar,"  says  I.     "No  man  is  going  'round  signing  books 


188  WERNER'S  READINGS 

with  his  initials.  If  it's  Homer  K.  M.  Spoopendyke  or  Homer  K.  M. 
Jones,  why  don't  you  say  so  like  a  man." 

"I  put  it  to  you  straight,  Sandy,"  says  Idaho,  quiet.  "It's  a  poem 
book  by  Homer  K.  M.  I  couldn't  get  color  out  of  it  at  first,  but 
there's  a  vein  if  you  follow  it  up.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  book 
for  a  pair  of  red  blankets." 

"You're  welcome  to  it,"  says  I.  "What  I  want  is  a  disinterested 
statement  of  facts." 

"Well,"  says  Idaho,  "give  me  old  K.  M.'s  system  of  surmises.  He 
seems  to  be  a  kind  of  a  wine  agent.  His  regular  toast  is  'nothing 
doing,'  and  he  seems  to  have  a  grouch,  but  he  keeps  it  well  lubricated." 

So  that's  the  way  me  and  Idaho  had  it.  Day  and  night  all  the 
excitement  we  got  was  studying  our  books.  By  the  time  the  snow 
melted,  if  you  had  waked  me  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
said:  "Sanderson  Pratt,  what  is  the  number  of  bones  in  the  human 
skeleton,  exclusive  of  the  teeth?  or  what  percentage  of  the  vote  of 
the  Nebraska  legislature  overrules  a  veto?"  I  could  have  told  you 
quick  as  winkin'. 

About  what  benefit  Idaho  got  out  of  his  poetry  book  I  didn't  exactly 
know. 

This  Homer  K.  M.,  from  what  Idaho  said,  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
kind  of  a  dog  who  looked  at  life  like  it  was  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail. 
After  running  himself  half  to  death,  he  sits  down,  hangs  his  tongue 
out,  and  looks  at  the  can  and  says: 

"  Oh,  well,  since  we  can't  shake  the  growler,  let's  get  it  filled  at 
the  corner,  and  all  have  a  drink  on  me." 

That  spring  me  and  Idaho  struck  pay  ore.  We  unloaded  on  our 
grubstaker  for  eight  thousand  dollars  apiece;  and  then  we  drifted 
down  to  this  little  town  of  Rosa  to  rest  up. 

Rosa  was  no  mining-camp.  There  was  a  three-mile  trolley  line 
champing  its  bit  in  the  environs;  and  me  and  Idaho  spent  a  week 
riding  on  one  of  the  cars.  We  was  soon  right  in  it  with  the  best  society 
in  Rosa,  and  was  invited  out  to  the  most  dressed-up  entertainments. 
It  was  at  a  piano  recital  and  quail-eating  contest  in  the  city  hall  that 
me  and  Idaho  first  met  Mrs.  De  Ormond  Sampson,  the  aueen  of  Rosa 
society. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  189 

Mrs.  Sampson  was  a  widow,  and  owned  the  only  two-story  hov.se 
in  town.  It  was  painted  yellow.  Twenty-two  men  in  Rosa  besides 
me  and  Idaho  was  trying  to  stake  a  claim  on  that  yellow  house. 

There  was  dancing  after  the  song-books  and  quail-bones  had 
been  raked  out  of  the  hall.  Twenty-three  of  the  bunch  galloped 
over  to  Mrs.  Sampson  and  asked  for  a  dance.  I  side-stepped  the 
two-step,  and  asked  permission  to  escort  her  home.  That's  where 
I  made  a  hit. 

On  the  way  home  says  she: 

"Ain't  the  stars  lovely  and  bright  to-night,  Mr.  Pratt?" 

"For  the  chance  they've  got,"  says  I,  "they're  humping  them- 
selves in  a  mighty  creditable  way.  That  big  one  you  see  is  sixty-six 
billions  of  miles  distant.  It  took  thirty-six  years  for  its  light  to  reach 
us." 

"My!"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "I  never  knew  that  before.  How 
warm  it  is!     I'm  as  damp  as  I  can  be  from  dancing  so  much." 

"That's  easy  to  account  for,"  says  I,  "when  you  happen  to 
know  that  if  every  one  of  your  perspiratory  ducts,  which  are  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  long,  was  placed  end  to  end,  they  would  reach  a  distance 
of  seven  miles." 

"Lawsy!"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "It  sounds  like  a  irrigation  ditch 
you  was  describing,  Mr.  Pratt.  How  do  you  get  all  this  knowledge 
of  information?" 

"From  observation,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  tells  her.  "I  keep  my 
eyes  open  when  I  go  about  the  world." 

"Mr.  Pratt,"  says  she,  "I  always  did  admire  a  man  of  education. 
I'd  be  gratified  to  have  you  call  at  my  house  whenever  you  feel  so 
inclined." 

I  never  imagined  that  Idaho  was  trying  to  work  on  Mrs.  Sampson 
with  old  K.  M.'s  rules  of  courtship  till  one  afternoon  when  I  met  the 
lady,  her  eyes  snapping,  and  her  hat  making  a  dangerous  dip  over  one 
eye. 

"Mr.  Pratt,"  she  opens  up,  "this  Mr.  Green  is  a  friend  of  yours, 
I  believe." 

"For  nine  years,"  says  I. 

"Cut  him  out,"  says  she.     "He's  no  gentleman!" 


190  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Why,  ma'am,"  says  I,  "he's  a  plain  incumbent  of  the  mountains, 
with  the  usual  failings  of  a  spendthrift  and  a  liar,  but  I  never  on  the 
most  momentous  occasion  had  the  heart  to  deny  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  It's  right  plausible  of  you,  Mr.  Pratt,  to  take  up  the  curmudgeons 
in  your  friend's  behalf;  but  it  don't  alter  the  fact  that  he  has  made 
proposals  to  me  sufficiently  obnoxious  to  ruffle  the  ignominy  of  any 
lady." 

"Why,  now,  now,  now!"  says  I.  "Old  Idaho  do  that!  I  could 
believe  it  of  myself  sooner." 

"  Ever  since  I  knew  him,  he  has  been  reciting  to  me  a  lot  of  irre- 
ligious rhymes  by  some  person  he  calls  Ruby  Ott,  and  who  is  no  better 
than  she  should  be.  And  to-day  he  caps  the  vortex.  I  get  a  bunch 
of  flowers  from  him,  and  on  'em  is  pinned  a  note.  Now,  Mr.  Pratt, 
you  know  a  lady  when  you  see  her.  Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that 
I'd  skip  out  to  the  woods  with  a  man  along  with  a  jug  of  wine  and  a 
loaf  of  bread,  and  go  singing  and  cavorting  up  and  down  under  the 
trees  with  him?  I  take  a  little  claret  with  my  meals,  but  I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  packing  a  jug  of  it  into  the  brush  and  raising  Cain  in  any 
such  style  as  that.  Let  him  go  on  his  scandalous  picnics  alone!  Or 
let  him  take  his  Ruby  Ott  with  him.  I  reckon  she  wouldn't  kick 
unless  it  was  on  account  of  there  being  too  much  bread  along." 

"Well,  'm,"  says  I,  "it  may  be  that  Idaho's  invitation  was  a  kind 
of  poetry,  and  meant  no  harm.  I'd  be  glad  on  Idaho's  account  if 
you'd  overlook  it,"  says  I,  "and  let  us  extricate  our  minds  from  the 
low  regions  of  poetry  to  the  higher  planes  of  fact  and  fancy.  Though 
it  is  warm  here,  we  should  remember  that  at  the  equator  the  line  of 
perpetual  frost  is  at  an  altitude  of  fifteen  thousand  feet." 

"  Oh,  Mi\  Pratt,  it's  such  a  comfort  to  hear  you  say  them  beautiful 
facts  after  getting  such  a  jar  from  that  minx  of  a  Ruby's  poetry!" 

"Let  us  forget  the  inhumanity  and  ribaldry  of  the  poets,"  says  I. 
"If  an  artery  is  cut,  compress  it  above  the  wound.  A  man's  leg  con- 
tains thirty  bones.  .  The  Tower  of  London  was  burned  in  1841." 

"Go  on,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "Them  ideas  is  so 
original   and  soothing."     And   so  I  had   a  fine  afternoon  with  her. 

One  night  I  was  waked  up  by  folks  hollering  "Fire!"     I  jumped 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  37.  191 

up  and  when  I  seen  it  was  Mrs.  Sampson's  house  I  was  there  in  two 
minutes. 

The  whole  lower  story  was  in  flames.  I  saw  Idaho  trying  to  get 
away  from  six  firemen  who  was  holding  him.  They  was  telling  him 
no  man  could  go  in  and  come  out  alive. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Sampson?"   I  asks. 

"She  hasn't  been  seen,"  says  one  of  the  firemen.  "She  sleeps 
up-stairs.  We've  tried  to  get  in,  but  we  can't,  and  our  company 
hasn't  got  any  ladders  yet." 

I  runs  around  to  the  light  of  the  big  blaze,  and  pulls  the  Handbook 
out  of  my  inside  pocket. 

"Herky,  old  boy,"  I  says  to  it,  "you  ain't  ever  lied  to  me  yet.  Tell 
me  what,  old  boy,  tell  me  what!" 

I  turned  to  "  What  to  do  in  Case  of  Accidents,"  an'  I  found  it. 

"Suffocation  from  Inhaling  Smoke  or  Gas. — There  is  nothing  better  than  flaxseed.     Place 
a  few  grains  in  the  outer  corner  of  the  eye." 

I  shoved  the  Handbook  back  in  my  pocket,  and  grabbed  a  boy 
that  was  running  by. 

"Here,"  says  I,  "run  to  the  drug-store  and  bring  a  dollar's  worth 
of  flaxseed.  Hurry,  and  you'll  get  another  one  for  yourself.  Now," 
I  sings  out  to  the  crowd,  "we'll  have  Mrs.  Sampson!" 

And  I  busted  into  the  house.  If  I  die  first,  I'll  write  you  a  letter 
and  tell  you  if  it's  any  worse  down  there  than  the  inside  of  that  yellow 
house  was.  The  firemen  helped  me  with  their  little  stream  of  water, 
and  I  finally  got  to  Mrs.  Sampson's  room.  She'd  lost  conscientious- 
ness from  the  smoke,  so  I  wrapped  her  in  the  bedclothes  and  got  her 
on  my  shoulder. 

I  carried  her  out  fifty  yards  from  the  house  and  laid  her  on  the 
grass.  Then,  of  course,  every  one  of  them  other  twenty-two  plaintiffs 
to  the  lady's  hand  crowded  around  with  tin  dippers  of  water.  Ana 
up  runs  the  boy  with  the  flaxseed. 

I  unwrapped  the  covers  from  Mrs.  Sampson's  head.  She  opens 
her  eyes  and  says: 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Pratt?" 

"S-s-sh,"  says  I.     "Don't  talk  till  you've  had  the  remedy." 


192  WERNER'S  READINGS 

I  runs  my  arm  around  her  neck  and  raises  her  head,  gentle,  and 
breaks  the  bag  of  flaxseed  with  the  other  hand ;  and  as  easy  as  I  could 
I  bends  over  and  slips  three  or  four  of  the  seeds  in  the  outer  corner 
of  her  eye. 

Up  gallops  the  village  doc  by  this  time  and  grabs  at  Mrs.  Sampson's 
pulse,  and  wants  to  know  what  I  mean  by  such  nonsense. 

I  gets  out  the  Handbook. 

"Look  on  page  117,"  says  I,  "at  the  remedy  for  suffocation  by 
smoke  or  gas.  'Flaxseed  in  the  outer  corner  of  the  eye,'  it  says.  I 
don't  know  how  it  works  but  Herkimer  says  it,  and  he  was  called  to 
the  case  first.  If  you  want  to  make  it  a  consultation,  there's  no  ob- 
jection." 

Old  doc  takes  the  book  and  looks  at  it  by  means  of  his  specs  and 
a  fireman's  lantern. 

"Well,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  he,  "you  evidently  got  on  the  wrong  line 
in  reading  your  diagnosis.  The  recipe  for  suffocation  says:  'Get 
the  patient  into  fresh  air  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  place  in  a  reclining 
position.'  The  flaxseed  remedy  is  for  'Dirt  and  Cinders  in  the  Eye,' 
on  the  line  above." 

"See  here,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Sampson,  "I  reckon  I've  got  something 
to  say  in  this  consultation.  That  flaxseed  done  me  more  good  than 
anything  I  ever  tried."  And  then  she  raises  up  her  head  and  lays  it 
back  on  my  arm  again,  and  says:  "Put  some  in  the  other  eye,  Sandy 
dear." 

And  so  if  you  was  to  stop  off  at  Rosa  any  day  you'd  see  a  fine 
new  yellow  house  with  Mrs.  Pratt,  that  was  Mrs.  Sampson,  embellishing 
and  adorning  it.  And  if  you  was  to  step  inside  you'd  see  on  the  marble- 
top  center-table  in  the  parlor  "Herkimer's  Handbook  of  Indispensable 
Information,"  all  rebound  in  red  morocco,  and  ready  to  be  consulted 
on  any  subject  pertaining  to  human  happiness  and  wisdom. 


